Szajha
by Calliopiea
Summary: Experimental - Voldemort defeats Harry Potter and takes the boy into his service (Slash, AU)
1. Beginning

Szajha  
  
By Alicia Flint  
  
A/N: AU, extreme slash, OOC (But since it's AU, I can do that)  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, J.K. Rowling's  
  
POV: Harry Potter  
  
Pairing: Multiple  
  
Description of AU: Lord Voldemort has defeated Harry Potter in a great war and now, all of the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry are being held in the dungeons, awaiting execution. Severus Snape has switched sides yet again at the last minute and is now working devotedly for Voldemort.  
  
I. The Beginning  
  
We sit waiting in the foyer, leading to the Great Hall -- All bony and dirty from days of neglect. The Hufflepuffs all weep and sob, blowing their dripping noses onto their tattered robes. Little Colin Creevey is trying to stand tall, trying to emulate me, but his slight frame is trembling. The Gryffindors, for the most part, are too exhausted to be frightened. We are ready for this entire thing to end -- To end in a flash of green light or by another means. We are walking towards death but we are not afraid.  
  
Lucius Malfoy steps out onto the foyer and his nose wrinkles in disgust. I would imagine that we must smell atrocious. A pile of our wastes had accumulated in the corner of the dungeons by the end of six days -- A sizable lump of dung with rodents burrowing into the filth. Neville Longbottom had wet his pants once during the night and the smell of dried urine is still upon him. I can smell it now as he edges closer to me, not wanting to be alone in this moment.  
  
"The time of judgement for you all is near," Malfoy announces, staring at me in particular. "You shall step forward into the Great Hall where you will stand before our Master, Lord Voldemort, and await your sentence."  
  
Lucius Malfoy retreats back into the Great Hall for a moment, just enough time for Ron to whisper, "If they think that I'm going to bow before that high and mighty arse . . ."  
  
The doors fly open and we stand before the congregation. The Slytherins sit the all four tables, clad in their informal black robes. Proud parents sit next to their children, beaming at their little Death Eaters. The children smirk knowingly at us -- The bedraggled outcasts. A few of the pureblood Ravenclaws also sit at the tables, heads bowed in shame. I do not look upon them with hatred -- What choice did they have?  
  
We approach the High Table. No longer does Albus Dumbledore sit in the Headmaster's Chair, now Lord Voldemort resides there -- Strumming his slender fingers against the table in anticipation. He is much different now -- Sable gray hair falling over his eyes in a youthful show of nonchalance, his arched cheekbones playing against the candlelight. I find him entrancing but horrifying in the same moment. He is the embodiment of evil.  
  
And the embodiment of our salvation.  
  
"Some shall be saved tonight," he states, rising to his feet. His stance is relaxed at the moment. There is no one to command, no one to impress. He is sentencing the rotting carrion, that is all. It puts me slightly at ease.  
  
"Some will be saved and others shall be sent to the dungeons for execution."  
  
A Hufflepuff whimpers. She will be dead by the end of the evening.  
  
"Before the sentencing, there are a few words I would like to say." Many fidget -- They are impatiently waiting for death. I stand there, somewhat relishing being in this man's presence now that my scar no longer burns at his very glance.  
  
"When I decided whom I would keep and whom I would destroy, I did not look at whether that individual was a mudblood or a pure-blood. I have defeated all of my opponents and the wizarding world is in my hands. I need intelligent, charismatic young men and women within my ranks. If I can find that brilliance in a Muggle-born, so be it."  
  
Lord Voldemort picks up a long list -- A death sentence to many.  
  
"Owen Cauldwell shall serve as a herbology assistant."  
  
A young Hufflepuff steps forward. He is one of the few without tearing eyes. He stoically makes his way to one of the tables and sits down next to Pansy Parkinson who smiles at him -- A smile, which reads, "Welcome to the ranks, Hufflepuff boy."  
  
"Cho Chang shall serve as a correspondent."  
  
Cho breathes out a sight of relief and happily steps forward and sits down. She beams at all of the Slytherins surrounding her. I wonder why I ever fancied her.  
  
"Padma and Parvati Patil shall serve as astronomy researchers."  
  
The twins won't be separated. I flash Parvati a grin as she walks past me. She gives me a weak attempt at a smile. She looks nauseous.  
  
"And Hermione Granger will serve as an assistant minister."  
  
"It's a position of prestige," Ron whispers to Hermione. She reaches to twine her fingers in his but he shoos her forward. She glances back at him, pain clearly readable in her eyes but he only waves good-bye to her. She sits down and buries her face in her hands.  
  
I will soon be dead. I never expected anything more. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, executed in the Hogwarts holocaust.  
  
"There are six more among you who will be saved," Lord Voldemort smiles. It is an uncaring smile but it still sends a pulsating shiver through me. "These six chosen shall be carefully trained by my own Szajha and shall . . . service me. My Debutantes . . ." The word is said with such a sense of whimsy and nostalgia that I wonder what the job is exactly.  
  
"Step forward as I call your names," he says. "Colin Creevey."  
  
The petite boy is petrified by the sound of his own name. I gently nudge him forwards and he takes a few steps into the open space between the High Table and us. Voldemort's smile brightens a little.  
  
"Justin Finch-Fletchley."  
  
The curly-haired Hufflepuff shyly steps forward, his friends patting him on the shoulder and telling him that everything will be fine -- Just fine.  
  
"Seamus Finnigan."  
  
Seamus takes a deep breath and tries to keep his composure. He steps forward and takes his place next to Justin.  
  
"Neville Longbottom."  
  
Neville, on the other hand, looks as though he's about to fall over in a dead faint. Dean Thomas lays steady hands on the boy's back, trying to keep him standing. Neville just stands there for a moment -- Not stepping forward, not running for the door in a hopeless retreat. Voldemort's eyes narrow in confusion. Then Neville takes a few shaky steps forward before Seamus grabs hold of his hand and pulls him the rest of the way.  
  
"Ronald Weasley."  
  
Ron blanches and his freckles stick out garishly. He looks at me and swallows.  
  
"It'll be fine," he reassures me. I suddenly understand. He feels guilty that he's been spared and that I won't be.  
  
"I'm glad for you," I reply gripping his hand tightly. He smiles and some of the color returns to his cheeks.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Ron, plucky in the face of danger, strides into the open space, crossing his arms against his chest and looking at Voldemort with a definite challenge in his eyes. I'm momentarily afraid that Voldemort will land the "Crucio" curse on him. Instead, Voldemort simply looks amused -- Amused and a bit intrigued.  
  
"Harry Potter."  
  
The name is called out and for a moment, I don't realize to whom the name belongs to. Then little Dennis Creevey pokes me in the ribs and whispers loudly, "That's you!" All of the other Gryffindor students nod in verification and I stagger up into the line. I've never seen Ron look so happy in all of the time I've known him. My eyes drift over to Voldemort whose pupils are widely dilated. I catch a whiff of the scent wafting off of the man and suddenly, the room seems so heady and the air seems so thick. I sway on my feet slightly but Ron's arm latches around my waist and catches me before I blackout.  
  
*****  
  
The damp chill of another dungeon greets me when I awake.  
  
The other five children crowd into a corner, holding each other close to keep warm. I notice, almost immediately, that we have been stripped of all our clothes. A light flush rises to my cheeks but I realize that it's very petty of me to be embarrassed at this moment. After all, we are trapped in a life or death situation. Why should I be worrying about who sees my naked flesh?  
  
"That bloody bastard took my best pair of trousers," Ron huffs. Justin curls up tightly into a little ball by Ron's side -- His head shoved into the nook of Ron's armpit. "He took my bleedin' trousers and I am beyond pissed."  
  
At that moment, the grate of the dungeon swings open and a slew of Death Eaters stand before us. My imagination flits over a variety of worst case scenarios.  
  
"On your knees, children," one of the ambassadors hisses and none of us hesitate, not even Ron. "Show respect for the Szajha."  
  
The sound of heels clicking on the stone floor greet my ears as someone enters the room.  
  
"Why hasn't anyone cleaned them?"  
  
I assume that the voice belongs to the Szajha. The voice is smooth yet definitively cold. It is a voice that I know that I have heard before -- Somewhere.  
  
"My apologies, Szajha. We will attend to that immediately."  
  
"I should hope so." The Szajha's voice holds a twinge of disgust and I'm glad that my face is hidden in the stone floor because another fierce blush overtakes me. "When you're finished with them, rub their backs with salve and bring them into the Room of Acca Larentia. They need to be branded."  
  
I hear Justin sniffle slightly. Hufflepuff.  
  
"That is all."  
  
The sound of heels clicking on the floor and, once again, the Szajha is gone. Rough hands grab my limbs and pull me up from the floor, along with the other five. We're dragged down the halls and, at once, thrown into a large cleaning chamber. The showerheads that stick threateningly out of the wall suddenly release rough jets of water. Neville yelps.  
  
Bars of soap slowly rub the dirt and grime off of my body. Looking down at my flesh, I am shocked to find how many open sores I have accumulated over the past few weeks. Some of them are beginning to scar over healthfully. Others are beginning to sap with pus. One of the Death Eaters, armed with his wand, walks around to each of us, healing our sores and smoothing out scars -- Turning our skin into flawless planes. Someone washes my hair -- Pulling at it this way and that, trying to wrench all of the grease from it. When that's finished, I feel an edge being pulled down my leg. I look down to see a razor being dragged down the expanse of my calf. The black hair that has accumulated there comes off easily, leaving naked, girlish skin in its wake. I am shocked but I voice no protest. My arms and chest are shaved in the same manner. Some words are muttered by a Death Eater -- A spell of some sort. I don't recognize it though.  
  
Soon after that, the water stops flowing. Warm oils are massaged into our flesh, eliminating any odor that has seeped into our skin. A cool salve is spread onto our backs and we are given short robes to wear.  
  
We are ready.  
  
*****  
  
The Death Eaters lead the six of us -- Still damp -- out into the hall and down a series of long corridors. After what seems like an eternity, we reach a small door, carved from white pine. One of the Death Eaters produces a key and the door is opened.  
  
The vastness of the room automatically overtakes me. The cool marble walls rise above my head for what seems like miles and the room is astronomically large -- Twice the size of any Quidditch field. Everything in this room is designed in pure white and gray -- Not a hint of color anywhere. Our attention is automatically drawn to the center of the room where a rampant downpour is in progress. A curtain of rain falls all around a high standing platform.  
  
"The floor isn't wet," Seamus whispers to me. "Look. The drops are disappearing before they hit the ground."  
  
"It's to avoid flooding."  
  
A voice from behind us forces us all to turn around. A young man, clothed in a white tunic, stands before us. His face is cherubic but something about him seems harsh and slightly jaded.  
  
"I can take it from here, gentlemen," he says with a nod of his head and the Death Eaters automatically leave us. For some reason, this makes me uncomfortable.  
  
"The Szajha loves rain," the young man continues. "Unfortunately, having an actual rainstorm in here would create a terrible mess, so we perform it magically instead. You must be the Debutantes?"  
  
"I suppose so," I respond bravely, ever the Gryffindor. He smiles cordially.  
  
"Welcome to the Room of Acca Larentia. I believe introductions are in order? I am Aquarius and I will be at your beckon call for the remainder of your stay here. It is my duty to cater to the whims of Debutantes."  
  
I would have to be deaf not to notice the bitter tone to his voice.  
  
"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron says, stepping up and extending a hand to Aquarius.  
  
"I'm sorry but I cannot," Aquarius says, politely declining his hand. "It is not my place to touch a Debutante. The honor is reserved for only for the Death Eaters, the Szajha, and, of course, Lord Voldemort himself."  
  
I'm extremely puzzled but I, like the others, decide not to question.  
  
"The Szajha will see you now," he declares and walks briskly towards the rainstorm, the "Debutantes" in tow. When we reach the torrent of droplets, the sound is deafening. Aquarius has to shout to be heard.  
  
"You will proceed up the stairwell and into the Szajha's quarters. There you will be appropriately branded."  
  
He bows and stands to the side, allowing us to pass. I approach the downpour and the rain begins to curve to the sides, forming a door. I look at Aquarius curiously.  
  
"We wouldn't want you drenched for the Szajha."  
  
I pass through the cleared area and emerge on the other side, facing a wide staircase. Ron and the others follow soon after me.  
  
"God, this is bloody twisted," Ron gasps, looking up the staircase. A pavilion stands at the top, sheer curtains cloaking it from the outside world. I lead the way up to the pavilion, with all the caution instilled in me by years of war -- Carefully, one step at a time, until we reach the top. We all exhale simultaneously when we reach the pavilion -- A shadow sits within.  
  
"Come in, if you please."  
  
I am the first to enter the pavilion, shoving the sheer material to the side. I see the Szajha clearly for the first time and, unfortunately, I am a bit less than surprised.  
  
"I thought it might be you," I say under my breath and a slight smile overtakes the corners of his carefully painted lips.  
  
Professor Snape sits on a mound of pillows in the center of the pavilion, looking much different than the last time I laid eyes on him. Mounds of jet- colored curls are piled up on top of his head in an effort that must have taken all morning. Deep charcoal lines his eyes and his lips are stained vermilion. A robe the color of India ink clings to any assets that he might possess, lacing up at the bodice and flaring out at the waist. His sallow skin is caked a brilliant alabaster but his nose remains the sole condemning feature. It is the dirt stain on the whitest of linens.  
  
"Bloody hell!" Ron whispers under his breath, eliciting an arched eyebrow from the Professor.  
  
"My sentiments exactly, I assure you. Imagine the shock I received when I learned that you were to be the new Debutantes."  
  
"If you don't mind my asking, what is a Debutante exactly, Professor?" I ask, wondering the exact meaning of this word which I have heard spoken with reverence, delight, shame, and hatred.  
  
"I am not referred to as 'Professor' in this terrain," he says, plucking a cigarette from the diamond-encrusted container next to him and lighting it. "I am usually called the Szajha. You may call me Severus, if you wish." He takes a long, luxuriant drag on the cigarette and Neville whimpers. Poor child. This must be his absolute worst nightmare.  
  
"I will answer your question but first, let us begin with the branding. It will take a few days time as it is and, I have to admit, I wish to get it over with as quickly as possible."  
  
"I wish to be the first then," I say, stepping up to the mound of pillows.  
  
"Good," Professor . . . Severus smiles, his voice taking on a smoky quality that makes me shiver. He snaps his fingers and, automatically, a series of servants come running into the pavilion. They are all young men, garbed in white tunics like Aquarius. They have a disturbingly sterile aura to them, like the ancient eunuchs in the harems. They hold bottles of ink and one of them presents Severus with a penknife. He snuffs the cigarette out and takes the penknife into his hands.  
  
"Take off your clothes," he commands, pricking the tip of his finger with the blade. I am suddenly flushed with embarrassment. Something about the thought of standing in front of Professor Snape, completely exposed . . .  
  
"Don't hesitate, Harry. I assure you that we'll come to know each other far more intimately." It is a promise that scares me half to death but I manage to untie the robe and let it drop to my feet. He examines every inch of my form and then nods his approval. He pats the pillow in front of him, beckoning me to come. I take a step forward but Ron holds me back.  
  
"Oh bleedin' hell, Harry, don't!" Ron says, loud enough for Severus to hear.  
  
I shove Ron's hand off my shoulder with a comforting look in his direction.  
  
"I'll be fine," I whisper and I continue on my journey up the mountain of pillows to receive the Mark. At last, I stand right before Severus.  
  
"Sit there with your back towards me," he says, patting the pillow in front of him again. I do as I am told and, automatically, I feel thighs clamping around my hips. A heated whisper in my ear -- "You're going to try and run. We all try and run at first."  
  
"Not me," I respond, practically spitting in the man's face.  
  
"I have to say, Harry" -- He dips the penknife into a container of black ink -- "That's the first genuine hostility I've seen from you since Lord Voldemort conquered the wizarding world. You've been taking your defeat surprisingly well. Now, hold still."  
  
The penknife clips into my back and almost immediately, white pain flashes through my body. It's a heated, desperate pain that makes a cold sweat break out on my body. I try to lash out at Severus . . . I try to run . . . But he holds me down firmly.  
  
"Don't try and fight it," he whispers, his hands trailing down my chest. I relax into his touch and gasp for air. "If you try and fight it, the pain will drive you mad."  
  
"What should I do?" I ask, resting my head on his shoulder, trying to recover from the pain.  
  
"Remain strong and come to enjoy it. After all, Harry, this will probably be the last time you feel pain."  
  
I sigh and sit up straight again. I nod, consenting the continuation of the branding. The penknife bites into my flesh time and time again. I sit there for hours and eventually the pain becomes a stimulating irritation. I come to welcome the sting and the heat. Eventually though, the pain stops altogether and I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. A cool lotion, smelling of mint, is rubbed into my back and, for a few moments, I just sit there while Severus holds me in his arms.  
  
"What is a Debutante?" I ask him, feeling this intense desire to simply fall asleep with my head against his chest.  
  
"A Debutante is the epitome of intellect, culture, etiquette, sexuality, and beauty," he responds, brushing my hair back, away from my face. "We are the centerpieces of empires." He sweetly kisses the top of my head.  
  
"I never knew you could be so maternal," I smile, looking up at him. He looks exhausted from his efforts. No doubt he is as tired as I am but five young boys await the Mark so we cannot simply fall into the abyss of slumber together. "Something has changed between us . . ." I say suddenly. "I hated you more than anything."  
  
"Don't question it," Severus says tersely. "Many things will change. You will find that all the things you took for granted are not as they appeared to be."  
  
"You hated me."  
  
"I didn't," Severus said softly. "Stop making assumptions. You know nothing, Harry. Absolutely nothing."  
  
I flinch slightly when I realize that he's right.  
  
"Now send one of the others up here and try and get some rest."  
  
I get up and stagger down the mountain of pillows. My back burns from the heated mark and from the cooling lotion.  
  
"Someone else go up there," I command before collapsing onto the floor and into sleep.  
  
*****  
  
When I awake, I notice that everything is disturbingly silent. I sit up to find that the other five have all left and that, now, I am alone. The soft sound of feet shuffling against marble prove otherwise. Severus emerges from behind a dressing screen looking much more familiar to me now. His hair is dewy and limp and the make-up has been removed from his face. He looks more like the stern Potions Master than the commanding, yet oddly gentile, Szajha. The only thing truly different about him is his hair. Where once it fell around his shoulders, it now cascades down his back to flick around his upper thighs. He climbs onto the mountain of pillows, pulling a cotton sheet over his form.  
  
"Care to join me tonight?"  
  
I don't know how I can refuse. I automatically come to his side, crawling under the sheet with him. There is something juvenile about it but there is also a definitive undertone that even I pick up on.  
  
"Who went after me?" I ask out of pure curiosity. "To receive the Mark."  
  
"The Creevey child," Severus responds. "Colin?"  
  
"Yes," I smile. "His name is Colin. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you've been referring to him as Mister Creevey for so long that you've forgotten his first name?"  
  
A slight rose tint rises to Severus' cheeks.  
  
"That boy emmulates you, Harry."  
  
"I'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice that."  
  
"Then Finnigan -- Seamus Finnigan -- went. He was brave, acting like a true Gryffindor. You would have been proud."  
  
"Why am I the only one left behind?" I ask suddenly.  
  
"You were the only one passed out on my floor," Severus says, his voice hinted with that familiar acidity. "And you were the only one whom I wanted to stay." 


	2. Wickedness

A/N: Thank you -- This is a piece plays completely off of my personal tastes and I'm glad that other people like it as much as they do  
  
II. Wickedness  
  
It is enlightening to watch him work. He is starting on Justin Finch-Fletchley this morning. Tears stain the Hufflepuff eyes and Severus wipes them away, whispering gently into the boy's ear. Meanwhile, the rain continues to pour down outside, isolating the pavilion from the rest of the castle. It creates a sense of community among our collective. If I never liked little Colin Creevey before, I find myself feeling akin to him now. The dewy atmosphere makes me feel warm and, for the first time, completely at peace. Yes, leave it to Lord Voldemort to finally introduce me to the concept of peace.  
  
"Not bad here," Ron sighs, resting his head against a pillow. "Better than I expected."  
  
"I think we should wait a while before we pass judgement," Seamus says, with a sagacity I never knew he possessed. "After all, it is only our first day here."  
  
"Still, I thought we were going to be scrubbing floors or something like that," Ron laughed. "You know, down on our knees with the scouring brush."  
  
"I can assure you that will never happen."  
  
Aquarius stands behind us, a tray of white, cream-thick beverages in his hands.  
  
"I thought that you might like something to refresh your spirits," he says, laying the tray of drinks down before us with a courteous bow. "And I wish to answer any questions that you may have."  
  
"Questions! I have a ton of those," Ron scoffs. "For the first thing, what's a debutante?"  
  
Aquarius sits down, slightly outside of our circle.  
  
"The story of the Debutantes," Aquarius begins, "is a tragic one. It all began with the Dark Wizard Grindelwald and his initial rise to power in the year 1923 . . ."  
  
"Oh god, it's Professor Binns' History of Magic course all over again," Ron groans.  
  
"No, Aquarius is much more interesting than Binns," Seamus laughs, moving to punch Aquarius playfully. The young man recoils frantically. "Oh, that's right," Seamus blushes. "I'm not allowed to touch you."  
  
"My apologies," Aquarius sighs, before continuing. "In 1923, Grindelwald fell in love with a most extraordinary young man going by the name of Alysaundre Demière."  
  
"That's disgusting!" Ron crinkles his nose and sticks out his tongue, looking like a second-year. Aquarius ignores him.  
  
"Alysaundre was very taken with Grindelwald and the power that he was exerting over the wizarding world. After a lengthy courtship, Alysundre agreed to bind himself to Grindelwald and become his personal servant. In 1925, Alysaundre became the first Szajha. The young boy quickly tired of his isolated life though and demanded that Grindelwald supply him with a retinue. Grindelwald complied and, in 1927, the first Debutantes were called. The Debutantes were known throughout the world for their beauty, their culture, and their virtuousness. There was one named Maxime Cordett who stood out from the rest. He was known as the 'plume of Grindelwald's Empire.' Alysaundre took a special liking to Maxime and, in 1934, he began an affair with the young Debutante."  
  
"That was a mistake, I gather," I say, picking up one of the drinks and taking a lengthy sip. The thick froth coats the inside of my throat and makes it difficult to breathe for a moment.  
  
"Correct," Aquarius replies. "Grindelwald remained in the dark about this liaison for years though. It wasn't until 1944 that Grindelwald finally became aware of Alysaundre's indiscretions. Some people say that, if enemies hadn't surrounded Grindelwald on all sides, he might have forgiven Alysaundre. After all, Grindelwald was very much in love with the young Szajha. Whatever the case, Grindelwald chose not to forgive and forget. Alysaundre and Maxime were both cursed. Their beauty wiped from them, they were locked into the depths of Azkaban. The two would be the precursors of the Dementors."  
  
"You've got to be kidding!" Ron grins, his eyes flickering with a morbid fascination. "That's bloody twisted!"'  
  
"Of course," Aquarius says matter-of-factly. "Why else do you think the Dementors use a kiss as their choice punishment? Grindelwald fell from power in 1945, defeated by Albus Dumbledore. The position of Szajha would have been abolished completely if it weren't for a boy who had been partially kept in Grindelwald's service since 1943. Upon his ascent to power, Tom Riddle became fascinated with a potions protegee at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In 1976, Severus Snape was bound to Tom Riddle at the second Szajha in history."  
  
"And we're the second group of Debutantes," Neville mumbles -- One of the first things I've heard him say in weeks.  
  
At this moment, Justin Finch-Fletchely stumbles over a pillow and practically falls into my lap. I help the boy into a sitting position and Seamus makes a vain attempt at comforting him while I examine the Mark engraved into his back. It's an ornate design done in crisp, black ink. Flowers cascade from his waist up to his shoulders, letters lace into the vines. Aquarius leans over to look at the Mark.  
  
"It's a bit swollen and puffy now," he says, examining the reddish flesh. "But it will heal nicely. It's beautiful work."  
  
"Thank you, as always, Aquarius," Severus calls from his position high atop the mountain. He looks exhausted but a satisfied smile crosses his lips. "Who will come next?"  
  
Neville curls tightly into himself, attempting to hide from the entire world. I look over at Ron who, once again, has blanched brilliantly.  
  
"No!" he balks, eyes wide with dread. "I will absolutely not go up there to have Professor Snape stick some letter opener into my back! Never!"  
  
"The branding is necessary," Aquarius sniffs, seeming far too high-and-mighty for simply a servant. "This way if you are ever abducted, you will be identifiable and it will be easier for us to bring you back."  
  
"Please Ron," I smile, grasping his hand in mine tightly. "I promise you that it's not that bad. Do Gryffindor right by this."   
  
Ron sighs and I can see that this is a battle easily won.   
  
"Right," he says, getting to his feet. "If that's the way it has to be . . ." He hesitantly unbuttons the robe and lets it fall off of his shoulders to a pool at his feet. "But I still don't like it."  
  
*****  
  
Justin Finch-Fletchley whimpers in his sleep and sprawls across my still form, looking for some comfort in a world that is spinning out of control. I begin to gently stroke his hair, muttering nonsensical words into his ear. Poor child. He must be frightened half out of his wits in these conditions. Ron smiles at me from across the way.  
  
"Where were you last night?" he asks, somewhat puzzled. The other five Debutantes slept in this chamber, directly next to the Room of Acca Larentia. I slept in the same bed as the Szajha.  
  
"I stayed with Severus last night," I shrug, trying not to make a big deal out of it. Ron's mouth gapes open unattractively and he looks like a fish found at the bottom of the Atlantic.  
  
"How could you stand being in the same room as that man?" Ron exclaims. I put my finger to my lips, signaling him to lower his voice. We don't want to disturb the little ones of course. Neville Longbottom cries out in the middle of a nightmare, groping his hand along his back. He was the last one to receive the Mark. He was the only one to scream.  
  
"He isn't that bad," I frown, gathering Justin against my chest. The whimpering stops momentarily and the boy lulls off into a peaceful abyss.  
  
"He is too," Ron huffs, crossing his arms against his chest. "That branding bloody well hurt."  
  
"It could have been worse," I say matter-of-factly. "Would you wake Neville up? He looks like he's having a nightmare."  
  
Neville has begun feverishly kicking away the covers and is now crying out every few seconds, "Grandma! Grandma!" I wonder how pure Neville Longbottom's blood happens to be. It could be that his grandmother has already been executed. His parents undoubtedly have already felt the numbing death of Avada Kedavra, along with the rest of the residents at St. Mungo's. I am forced to wonder if the Longbottoms knew what was happening as they sat in front of the Death Eaters like Muggles before a firing squad.  
  
"Neville," Ron whispers harshly, taking the boy by the shoulder and shaking him. Neville automatically bolts awake -- His face covered with a thin sheen of sweat. He lets out a yowl reminiscent of Remus Lupin during the full moon.  
  
I practically slam my head against the concrete wall for thinking about it.  
  
Remus Lupin and Sirius Black have probably both been captured by now. After all, who wants to take the risk of concealing two fugitives with Lord Voldemort on the throne. Remus Lupin has probably been put down by the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. Walden Macnair must be having the time of his life. As for Sirius Black . . . He's probably finally received the Dementor's Kiss. I let out a dry laugh at the irony. Here I'm helping to fill the gap left by the first Dementors while my godfather -- my only family -- dies at their hands.  
  
The candles suddenly ignite and Severus stands in the doorway -- A frightened look plastered on his normally indifferent features.  
  
"Is something the matter?" he asks. "I heard someone shout and I thought that something might be wrong."  
  
"That was only Neville," I reply, getting to my feet. "He had a nightmare."  
  
"Will you be alright?" Severus asks. He's trying to remain indifferent but his eyes narrow in concern.  
  
"Fine," Neville mumbles, pulling his legs up to his chest and hiding his face between his knees. Severus doesn't push the boy any farther. He turns on the heels of his boots and is about the leave the room when I stop him.  
  
"Severus!" I call, running to meet him in the frame of the door. "Do you know what's happened to Remus Lupin and Sirius Black?"  
  
Severus' nose turns up slightly at the name "Sirius Black" and the distaste is evident in his features.   
  
"I have no idea," Severus says. "Are you going to be requiring an answer now or can this wait until the morning?"  
  
I would like to say that it can wait until the morning but this is one of those matters that will languidly gnaw at my emotions all night long.  
  
"This can't wait until morning, Severus," I say, bowing my head towards the ground.  
  
"If you want this matter taken care of tonight, Harry, you're going to have to seek an immediate audience with Lord Voldemort."  
  
*****  
  
"Don't be nervous," Severus sighs, picking through his wardrobe. "Nothing ill will befall you tonight." Severus pulls a white gown out of the armoire. A blue bodice -- fabric reminiscent of curtains that the Dursleys once owned -- accompanies it.  
  
"Try this," Severus says wearily, handing the ensemble to me. "If you don't mind, I have to make myself presentable."  
  
"All this just to ask how my godfather is?" I ask, my eyebrow arching slightly. "Doesn't this seem a bit . . . overdone?"   
  
"A Debutante would never appear before anyone of importance in a state of undress," Severus declares, pulling another relatively simple gown from the closet. He disappears behind a scrim, leaving me alone. I quickly scramble out of my robe and pull the gown over my head roughly. I straighten the skirt so that the hem just grazes the floor. Picking up the bodice, I wonder how on earth I'm going to lace it up.  
  
"Don't try doing that yourself."   
  
Severus emerges from behind the scrim, looking all the more like "the Szajha" -- Dressed in absinthe and ebony. He steps behind me, his fingers ghosting over my shoulders momentarily before the bodice cuts off all of the circulation in my chest.  
  
"God!" I squeal, attempting to bat Severus' hands away. "Would you mind not pulling that quite so tightly?" In response, another harsh yank is exerted on the laces. This continues until my torso is suitably cramped into the bodice. I feel like all of the air has been permanently pushed out of my lungs.  
  
"Sit," Severus commands, motioning towards the vanity.   
  
"I don't think I could sit if I wanted to," I say, squirming in the prison of the bodice.  
  
"Of course you can sit," Severus scowls. "Just keep your back straight and don't even attempt to slouch."  
  
I gingerly ease myself into the chair -- My back ramrod straight.  
  
"This is very uncomfortable."  
  
"That's only because you aren't used to it," Severus says, opening a drawer and pulling out a brush. "You'll adjust given time."  
  
"That doesn't help much in the present moment," I say through gritted teeth. Examining myself in the mirror though, I am somewhat becoming. The gown is flattering enough, my figure is shapely, and my posture has improved ten-fold. It's still damned uncomfortable. Severus brushes bay-hued strands out of my eyes, trying his best to make me presentable. Every now and then he issues forth a "tut tut" of disapproval.  
  
"We shall turn you into something worthwhile," he says, grimacing as he comes to yet another knot in my haphazard locks. "Somehow . . . We will turn you into something worthwhile."  
  
*****  
  
"Our Highest Lord bids you welcome. You may enter."  
  
The servant bows curtly and stands aside, leaving us standing before the door. It's a white chiseled marble -- Too reminiscent of a tomb. My blood runs cold and light seems to be pulsating from behind my eyes. Not the pain associated with the scar, of course. That faded long ago. I know this pain well, all the same. It's the chilled pain of fear.  
  
"Don't be nervous," Severus whispers again, ghosting his lips over my cheekbone. He allows them to linger there a tad too long and, for a moment, I'm struck with the notion that he might kiss me. He quickly pulls away though and goes to open the door.  
  
I must have had the wrong idea.  
  
The door is opened and I'm faced with a sitting room -- An oddly bland sitting room. The couches are ashen gray and austere. Hand embroidered blankets hang on the walls. I examine one for a few moments and see that a message is carefully cross-stitched into the fabric:  
  
I built a tiny garden   
In the corner of my heart.  
I kept it just for lovely things   
And bade all else depart.  
And ever there was music   
And flowers blossomed fair.  
Yet never was it perfect   
Until you entered there.  
Severus, 1976  
  
"You seek an audience with me?"   
  
The voice shocks me back into the present moment. Severus has already left my side and is kneeling by Voldemort, resting his head on the Dark Lord's thigh. He looks oddly serene there, as though this is the one place where he belongs. Voldemort reaches a hand out and gently strokes Severus' hair.  
  
I'm under the sudden impression that I could watch the two of them for hours.  
  
"You won't ask your question then?" Voldemort smiles, running his thumb across the shell of Severus' ear.  
  
"Yes, if please your Lord," I murmur, not knowing exactly how I should approach this.  
  
"It is only the second day they have been in my care, my Lord," Severus says, quietly and with reverence. "They have all received the Mark but I have yet to teach them anything of etiquette."  
  
"He's doing fairly well on his own," Voldemort says, beckoning me forward. I hesitantly approach until I am only a foot in front of the Dark Lord. "Do you know how to curtsey, my child?"  
  
I'm suddenly hit with a wave of disgust -- Curtsey? That's something that little girls learn how to do in charm school. It's not for a Gryffindor, not for a war hero, and certainly not for Harry Potter. Voldemort lets out a short laugh and I realize that my nose has unconsciously wrinkled.  
  
"It is the place of a Debutante to be the epitome of etiquette," Voldemort says, echoing some of Severus' words. "We have traditional standards. When a Debutante approaches a Death Eater or myself, he must curtsey to show his respect and admiration."  
  
Severus smiles slightly.  
  
It is not my place to question any longer, I remind myself, no matter how distasteful it may be. I sweep one foot behind me and dip down to the ground, trying to get as low as possible. I falter slightly on the way up but, apparently, Voldemort and Severus are both pleased. They applaud my efforts.  
  
"He will certainly make a fine Debutante," Voldemort comments, appraising me closely with his eyes. "Your lack of animosity amazes me. My apologies, Harry, I thought that you might be more . . . hostile towards me."  
  
"I'm too exhausted to fight," I say, trying to remain as polite and mild-mannered as possible. "My friends and I just want security at the moment and we seem to be receiving that by your hand. The battle is over. You are no longer my mortal enemy. I know when to submit."  
  
"An exceptional Debutante. So incredibly diplomatic." Voldemort takes one last glance at me before turning his attentions to Severus. "My Szajha, would you play a piece for me?" He motions toward a flute that is propped up in the corner. Severus rises to his feet and curtsies -- A deep and graceful curtsey (Much better than mine, at least). He strides to the flute, picks it up, and positions it against his lips.  
  
"Kneel by me, Harry," Voldemort says, motioning for me to take Severus' place at his side. I comply, not wanting to displease the man who holds my entire life in the palm of his hands. Severus begins to play Mozart's Concerto in G Major. His hands move deftly over the keys -- Each note flooding into the air surrounding us.  
  
"I never knew that Severus could play so well," I say, resting my head against Voldemort's thigh as Severus did. Voldemort's hand plays idly with strands of my hair.  
  
"You probably never knew Severus could play at all," he responds. We both sit in silence until Severus has finished trilling over the final notes. I applaud enthusiastically. Voldemort nods in approval.  
  
"I hope that you aspire to be like my Szajha," Voldemort says, tipping my chin up with his index finger so that I'm looking him in the eye. "Greatness has always been within your grasp." He pauses for a moment. "Now ask your question, my child."  
  
"My godfather, Sirius Black, and his friend, Remus Lupin -- Are they alright?" Better to know the answer, I think. Better to know the answer and better to grieve.  
  
"Your godfather and his companion are currently in my custody," Voldemort says gravely. "They are perfectly fine."  
  
A flood of relief washes over me and I feel myself go weak. I limply fall against Voldemort, trying to get control of my emotions.  
  
My family is alive.  
  
Author's Note: Next time, SLASH (And lots of it) 


	3. Training

A/N: Thank you again for your kind responses -- Some of the best ones I've ever had (Sorry for any wait -- Slash is discouraging for me to write)  
  
III. Training  
  
"Basic training will begin today," Severus says, pacing the length of the pavilion and looking like the professor from our school days -- Extremely authoritarian. "You will learn the basics of etiquette which you will be required to know for the Cockatrice Bacchanalia next weekend."  
  
"Cockatrice Bacchanalia? Sounds fairly obscene, if you ask me," Ron says, scowling distastefully.  
  
"It doesn't matter how 'obscene' you may find it," Severus declares with the arch of an eyebrow. "As one of the Debutantes, Mister Weasley, you are expected to attend. And, since I am the Szajha and I am therefore in charge of your activities, you will be attending -- Coute qu'il coute."  
  
Ron Weasley wrinkles his nose, obviously having no idea what the final statement means. Severus waits in silence for a moment, in case any of the other children care to object. He then continues:  
  
"You will then learn aspects of culture -- Dancing, for instance. I expect that none of you know how to dance."  
  
"I know perfectly well how to dance," Ron huffs, crossing his arms against his chest. Severus sighs hopelessly.  
  
"Very well, Mister Weasley. Show me that you know how to dance and you will be excused from that lesson."  
  
Ron proceeds to get to his feet, dust his robe off, and engage in a dance routine that looks like it's come out of a drunken muggle graduation party. I clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing when Ron launches into a series of steps that can only be described as "the Sprinkler." Severus remains stoic throughout this presentation.  
  
"There! See!" Ron exclaims. "I can dance!"  
  
"Yes, Mister Weasley," Severus drawls. "I see now that you certainly can dance. I was mistaken to ever doubt your abilities."  
  
Ron smiles, obviously pleased with himself.  
  
"However, the way you dance in front of the mirror in your bedroom, clad only in your boxers, will do you little good here. I'm afraid that you will have to take lessons with the rest, Mister Weasley. Unless you can prove to me you're competent in the waltz?"  
  
Ron takes this opportunity to sit down.  
  
"You will also have to learn the art required for after the Bacchanalia. Yes, you will have to be especially well-learned when it comes to that." Severus suddenly flushes beautifully, taking a seat on the chaise lounge. "It is the main role of the Debutante to be well-learned at that."  
  
"And what exactly is 'that?'" Ron takes the prerogative to ask. "You're being very ambiguous about 'that.'"  
  
"Sexual pleasures," Severus replies bluntly. "After the Bacchanalia, you'll all be expected to allow Lord Voldemort to bed you -- To take your virginity, as I know you're all quite virginal."  
  
All of the children have their mouths gaped open in shock. I am the only one who isn't surprised by this latest development. When Lord Voldemort expressed such an interest in me last night, I began to get a sense of the role of a Debutante.  
  
"Wait a moment," Ron stammers, being the first one to come to his senses. "You mean that we're supposed to allow Voldemort to fuck us?"  
  
Severus looks as though he has just encountered a large pile of rotting carrion.  
  
"It will not be referred to as 'fucking' as long as you are in my charge. You will refer to it as 'bedding,' 'servicing,' or 'pleasuring.'"  
  
"I don't believe this," Ron exclaims, looking absolutely indignant. "I don't bloody well believe this!"  
  
"Believe it, Mister Weasley," Severus sighs with a great air of fatigue. "That will be your most important task -- To learn how to give pleasure. You shall learn by observing and by some experience prior to the Bacchanalia."  
  
"Wait a moment," Ron protests, his face blanching. "By observing? Observing who exactly?"  
  
"Myself, of course," Severus responds. "I happen to be extremely well- learned in the art."  
  
"You?" Ron exclaims, taking a step backward in disgust. "Who on earth would ever go to bed with you? That's positively disgusting!"  
  
I feel like standing up and clapping a hand over Ron's mouth before he can do anymore damage but I can already feel the tension rising up in Severus. The rainfall outside seems to increase in intensity, the air smells the way it does right before lightning strikes.  
  
"Mister Weasley," Severus says softly, threateningly. "As the Szajha, let me assure you, that more than a few men have come to my bed and have begged me to service them. I have not refused. You will not find a man among Voldemort's ranks more experienced than I. I assure you, Mister Weasley, that I am extremely desired. I suggest you think twice before suggesting otherwise."  
  
Neville whimpers. Ron recoils.  
  
I take this opportunity to step forward. "Severus, you also mentioned experience. Will that also be administered by your hand?"  
  
"Of course," Severus replies, picking up his cigarette holder and looking at it attentively. "You are not allowed to be touched by anyone except the Szajha until you have bed Lord Voldemort."  
  
Ron mumbles something involving the phrase "Bloody pervert." Severus glares at him but does not speak.  
  
"What are we going to do today?" Colin Creevey asks, stepping forward from where he has been standing quietly. Indeed, the other four have been standing still all this time -- Justin, Neville, Seamus, and Colin. They almost disappear into the curtains.  
  
"Thank you, Mister Creevey, for showing some enthusiasm towards your training," Severus says, inserting a cigarette into the holder and lighting it. "We will begin today with basic etiquette. You will learn how to curtsey and properly address Lord Voldemort." He inhales deeply on the cigarette and that act alone must calm his nerves when Ron Weasley steps forwards . . . again.  
  
"Curtsey?" Ron voices my thoughts from last night. "You want us to curtsey? But we're men!"  
  
"You're not men anymore, Mister Weasley -- You're Debutantes which is a different thing entirely."  
  
*****  
  
"Alright," Severus sighs, massaging his temples gently. "Show me that you've learned something and we'll end this lesson in etiquette."  
  
Seamus Finnigan is the first one to step forward. The curtsey is a bit too shallow and he keeps his eyes locked on his feet the entire time, willing them not to make a mistake. His address it courteous and respectful though -- "My Lord, I am honored to formally make your acquaintance." Severus nods -- A job decently done.  
  
Colin Creevey is the next one to step forward. He tries to bend deeply but stumbles on the way down. He curses under his breath and rises to his feet. "My Lord," he says, straightening out his robe. "I am honored to formally make your acquaintance." The child tries to regain his dignity. Severus smiles.  
  
Justin Finch-Fletchley earns a word of praise from Severus. His curtsey is graceful, albeit slightly hesitant. His words are soft and well-mannered. All throughout the address, he seems patient and mindful -- Not brash like us Gryffindors.  
  
Neville Longbottom is practically pushed forward by the rest of us and he's a disaster right from the get go. He trips over his own two feet while curtseying and then proceeds to stammer over all of the words, wringing his hands together in nervousness. Severus' eyes fall flat, realizing that Neville might be a lost cause as far as Debutantes go. He praises the boy for his efforts though.  
  
The moment we've all been dreading finally arrives -- Ron Weasley stands before Severus. His curtsey is sharp and masculine, more of a bow than anything. His words are quick and informal. Severus shakes his head -- No. Ron doesn't bother to try and correct any of his movements though. He simply does the exact same thing over again and sits down, content.  
  
I step forward and repeat my performance from last night with a few minor adjustments. I curtsey low to the ground, bowing my head in reverence. I gently lift myself back up, saying, "My Lord, I am honored to formally make your acquaintance." The respect in my tone is sincere. I'm pleased with the performance.  
  
"Extremely well done, Harry," Severus says, using my given name to distinguish me from the rest of the Debutantes -- As if, by doing so, he's turning me into the elite. I blush slightly. "You would all do well to emulate Mister Potter," he says to the rest of the Debutantes. The reddening of my cheeks only deepens.  
  
Severus rises from his seat on the chaise lounge. "We shall now retire from this chamber," Severus says, taking a final glance around the pavilion. "I refuse to entertain guests in the Room of Acca Larentia. Follow me."  
  
Severus quickly steps out of the pavilion into the rain which contorts around his figure. We follow closely at his heels. He leads us across the length of the pavilion and stands before the door, extracting a key from inside his robes.  
  
"Are you leaving, Szajha?" Aquarius asks, bowing slightly.  
  
"Yes, Aquarius," Severus responds, turning the key in the lock. "I have guests to entertain at the moment."  
  
"And the Debutantes are accompanying you?"  
  
Severus opened the door, revealing the dark corridor outside of the chamber. The six of us automatically move closer together.  
  
"The Debutantes have much to learn, Aquarius," Severus says simply, walking out into the corridor, the string of Debutantes in tow. We walk down a twisted assortment of hallways and up a flight of stairs before we finally reach a door -- Stone encrusted with gold leaf.  
  
"Welcome to my private chambers," Severus smiles, entering the room and beckoning us to follow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare myself." Severus' eyes flicker over a calendar in the back of the room and he reads the name emblazoned under the date -- "Draco Malfoy." Without another word, he whisks into an adjoining room and closes the door behind him.  
  
"Draco Malfoy?" Ron asks, distaste evident in his voice. "What on earth could Professor Snape want with Draco Malfoy?"  
  
We all sit down on the various pieces of plush furniture -- All of them are the same gray color that had adorned Voldemort's room. This room is more luxuriant though. Crimson carpeting covers the stone floor, a chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Gold designs are embedded in the walls -- Serpents slithering across stone. A large canopy bed sits in the middle of the room and, suddenly, I know why we're here. Everything is so dark to avoid excessive staining . . .  
  
A taut silence falls between the six of us -- A silence that is only broken when Severus comes back. A loose robe is tied around him and patches of flesh reveal that underneath the robe, the Szajha wears nothing. His hair falls in soft, loose curls. Paint adorns his features but none of the hard lines that he wears in public -- Instead, everything about him is gentile and refined.  
  
The one night I spent with him, he quickly fell asleep, murmuring a few words to me about what an ideal Debutante I would become. If he had tried to touch me, if he had tried to kiss me, I don't think I would have protested.  
  
There's a quick knock at the door and Severus beams at us.  
  
"This is what I mean by observing," Severus whispers. Ron looks at though he's going to vomit any second. "Come in," Severus calls and the door opens, revealing Draco Malfoy.  
  
I have to keep a hand firmly planted on Ron's shoulder. He looks as though any moment he's going to make a murderous run for the young Death Eater. Draco, on the other hand, doesn't even notice us. His eyes immediately lock on Severus -- A gleam of unparalleled desire evident.  
  
Severus rises to his feet, always the model of etiquette. He curtsies, putting us all to shame -- "Good day, sir."  
  
I'm suddenly struck with the impression that this is a very shameful scenario -- Severus being forced to bow to his former student, to appease the every whim of a boy half his age. This thought is dashed from my mind when I see Draco bow deeply, treating Severus with every scrap of respect indebted to him.  
  
"Good day, Szajha," Draco responds. "I trust you're fairing well?"  
  
"Perfectly, thank you," Severus smiles, beckoning for Draco to join him on the bed. Draco strides over and sits down next to the former potions professor. He sits there, looking starched and uncomfortable until Severus lays his hand on Draco's arm. I realize then that the Debutante is the individual that holds all the power -- A Debutante can decide whether to accept or refuse, a Debutante must initiate the encounter. Draco drapes his arm around Severus' shoulders and Severus leans into the young Death Eater.  
  
"I've wanted this since the moment I first saw you," Draco whispers into Severus' ear. We all strain to hear to words of adoration. "You're the very salt, the very essence, of my existence."  
  
Justin Finch-Fletchley sighs, leaning his head on the couch. Draco jumps slightly, turning to look at us, acknowledging our presence for the first time.  
  
"These are the Debutantes."  
  
Draco doesn't hesitate in getting to his feet and walking over to where we have congregated. All of the others remain perched on the edge of their seats, looking distrustfully at Draco. I am the only one to rise and curtsey, not willing to let Draco outshine me in manners and etiquette. He bows as is expected but the next movement catches me off-guard: He takes one of my hands in his, turns it over so that my palm is facing upwards, and kisses it.  
  
"You must be extremely pleased, Szajha," Draco says with a jaunty grin, staring at me the entire time. "To have such delectable beauty shaped under your fingers . . ."  
  
I notice that Draco is still holding my hand and I pull it away quickly.  
  
"Your words are too kind," I murmur, averting my eyes. Severus clears his throat and I realize my mistake immediately. "Your words are too kind, sir."  
  
"I trust you won't mind if my Debutantes watch?" Severus asks, rising to his feet and walking over to touch Draco lightly on the hip. The young Death Eater trembles slightly. "They're very inexperienced and I'm hoping to teach them something before their first encounter with the Dark Lord."  
  
"Of course," Draco says, taking Severus' hand in his and leading the Szajha back over to the bed. Severus smiles coyly as Draco's hands move to untie the robe. The fabric is pushed off of his shoulders and falls to a pool at his feet. For the first time, the Szajha stands before us -- Completely exposed.  
  
The first thing I notice is that he bears the same mark that was embedded into our flesh. The vines twine around his waist and down his flanks. He's exceptionally thin -- Not a single ounce of fat or muscle to be found. Everything about him seems fine and delicate -- Womanly in a sense. His nipples are taut and erect, sticking out like two rose buds about to blossom. My eyes travel farther down to survey the pile of tight black curls -- The only hair on the Szajha's body. Then I catch sight of his erection -- Only six inches at its longest, a lush ruddy color with a shimmering tip. It's only then that I notice his foreskin has been pierced -- A thin silver ring protruding from it.  
  
"Oh bloody hell," Ron mutters under his breath, his eyes widening.  
  
Severus drops to his knees in front of Draco, deftly unbuttoning the boy's pants and withdrawing the hard flesh from between the folds of fabric. He bends towards the cock and licks it gently, easing his tongue against the head. A slight moan, an abrupt jerk of the hips. Severus withdraws and looks up to gauge the child's reaction. Hesitantly, he leans forward and uses the pre-cum smeared across the tip to moisten his lips.  
  
I try to find a more comfortable position to sit in -- One that will accommodate the hardness between my legs.  
  
Slowly, Severus takes the length halfway into his mouth, reaching one hand up to wrap around the base. Draco reaches out to grab a handful of Severus' hair but . . . He stops himself and clings to the bedpost instead -- His knuckles turning a milky white from the strain. The child begins thrusting wantonly into Severus' mouth and I watch, spellbound, at the cock disappearing through the "o" of the puckered lips and then being withdrawn.  
  
I glance over to find that the Debutantes are all distracted, gaping at the exhibition before them. I take advantage of this and discreetly slip my hand under my gown, grasping my erection firmly. I begin to work my hand up and down the length -- My eyes focusing on Severus the entire time.  
  
Severus withdraws again for a moment, catching his breath, allowing the cock to hover on his glossy bottom lip.  
  
"Beautiful," Draco whispers between labored breaths. Severus smiles and begins his ministrations once again. His tongue slowly traces a line from the base of the cock right down to the tip and then the cock retreats back into his mouth. It only takes a few moments -- Draco's back arches and he moans deeply. They remain in that position for a few seconds and then, the cock is withdrawn. Severus politely swallows, wiping the few traces of semen from his lips with the back of his hand.  
  
I feel myself coming closer to the edge. I close my eyes and focus on the task at hand -- My movements becoming more haphazard and reckless.  
  
"Harry."  
  
I open my eyes to find Severus sitting on the bed, observing me with quiet reverence. Draco is sprawled out next to him, watching me with languid eyes, his features shimmering with sweat and afterglow. All of the Debutantes turn to see what the disruption is -- All eyes are focused on the hand between my legs. I quickly withdraw the aforementioned hand, a thick blush tinting my cheeks when I see that none of the other Debutantes have made any move to touch themselves. I'm the only one . . . Caught in the act . . .  
  
Severus rises from his place on the bed and sits in front of me, brushing away the hair that's fallen into my eyes. A hand trails down my cheek in a gesture of affection while his other hand reaches under the hem of my gown. I protest slightly but he puts a finger to my lips, signaling for me to be quiet -- Be quiet now and let him work. His grasps the column of flesh and begins languidly rubbing his hand up and down my prick, using the other fingers to stroke my scrotum gently. I gasp and gently lay my hands on his shoulders. He continues for only a few more seconds before I come, warm semen flooding out onto his hand.  
  
He brings his hand out from under the gown, wiping his fingers off on a handkerchief on the arm of the couch. He chastely kisses me on the lips and then gets up. His own arousal is bobbing noticeably but he appears to be ignoring it -- Not acknowledging that it exists.  
  
"You are excused," he says to us. The other Debutantes rise to their feet and exit the room, not a word exchanged between the two of them. Ron looks at me, slight contempt glittering in his eyes. I'm about to leave the room when Severus stops me -- Grabs me firmly by the wrist. "Stay with me again tonight," Severus commands under his breath. I don't know how to deny him. I don't know if I want to deny him.  
  
Severus turns his attention to the young blonde splayed out on his bed. He picks the robe off of the ground and wraps it around himself, as if the room had suddenly become chilled. "If you will not be requiring my services anymore, sir?" Severus asks reverently.  
  
"Of course not, Szajha . . . Severus." The boy rises from his place on the bed, buttoning his pants back up and straightening his clothes out.  
  
"Call on me whenever you wish . . . Draco."  
  
The first names are used hesitantly. Formalities are exchanged and Draco walks to the doorway. He turns on his way out and looks at me.  
  
"It was a pleasure," he says, bowing once again. Then, he turns his back and leaves.  
  
"Draco seems very taken with you," Severus says matter-of-factly, sitting down on top of the white cotton sheets. He takes his erection in his hands and begins hastily masturbating. His goal isn't self-pleasurement, I can see that now. It's simply eliminating want and need. He comes quickly and wipes his hand off, hardly acknowledging the action. He pats the side of the bed and I lay down by his side.  
  
"You didn't let him sleep with you," I comment, trying to figure out all of the formalities in my mind's eye. What is the true role of the Debutante? Who do we serve exactly?  
  
"I never allow anyone to sleep with me, except for Tom," Severus states. He thinks a moment and then adds: "Never call him Tom in a formal situation. It's a name only to be used when he takes you to his bed. And, even then, few people are allowed to use that particular nomenclature."  
  
"Oh." I pause for a moment, looking at Severus -- Black eyes framed by thick lashes, high cheekbones traced with rogue, and that horrid nose . . . "Would you kiss me again if I asked?"  
  
Severus laughs, high-pitched and proud.  
  
"Go to sleep." 


	4. Beauty

A/N: Thank you once again for all of the compliments -- And to anyone who was wondering, yes, the use of the word "Szajha" is intentional This chapter is dedicated to Tim -- The strikingly beautiful one  
  
IV. Beauty  
  
"What are they?"  
  
They've been filing in and out of the Room of Acca Larentia for hours now -- Pages dressed in white robes, their arms laden with brocades and chiffon. Some of them carry quivers full of peacock feathers. Others are draped with jewelry forged from palladium. We watch them attentively -- Depositing the lucre into the pavilion and then returning whence they came for more.  
  
"They're called the Venustians," Aquarius replies, eyeing the visitors with distinct suspicion. "The artisans of Voldemort's empire. Tailors, milliners, coiffeurs . . . They thrive off of creating beauty." Aquarius pauses for a moment, watching one of the Venustians chalk lines onto a cutting of fabric. "Venustians are the only servants allowed to lay hands on the Debutantes and on the Szajha -- But they must wear dragonhide gloves at all times."  
  
Wooden screens are propped up throughout the Room of Acca Larentia -- Makeshift dressing chambers. Pages set up clothing racks and pack them full of garments in different hues and styles.  
  
Severus exits the pavilion, talking amiably with one of the Venustians -- A young boy with gunmetal eyes, round as saucers. He appears polished -- His stance is wrought with civility.  
  
"My Debutantes," Severus announces, gesturing to our group. The Venustian bows -- A shallow, half-hearted bow -- before rising his head and looking all of us up and down. He's digging out our flaws by sight. I'm suddenly self-conscious.  
  
"You may call me Mattox," the boy says, his words dulcet. "You may place yourselves into my hands in trust and good faith."  
  
"I don't place myself into anyone's hands," Ron declares obstinately. It's a statement that earns him a hard scowl from Severus. Mattox is the one to speak:  
  
"Of course not. Let me assure you though -- My work is the best out there. I can certainly turn you children into the Debutantes you need to become."  
  
I find Mattox to be extremely patronizing. Not exactly unlikable but extremely patronizing.  
  
"You'll be spending more than enough time with Mattox and the Venustians later on," Severus yawns, pulling his hair back and fastening it in place with two onyx-encrusted pins. "I, for one, am going to retire to my chambers." Then directed towards Mattox: "Keep in mind, Mattox -- The Cockatrice Bacchanalia is approaching."  
  
"Of course, my Szajha," Mattox replies, his voice thick with reverence.  
  
I find Mattox to be extremely sycophantic. Not exactly unlikable but extremely sycophantic.  
  
"Come along," Severus commands as he strides out of Room of Acca Larentia. We follow in his wake. I look back for a moment to see Mattox glaring at Neville Longbottom, a look of disapproval etched into his face.  
  
I take back everything. Mattox is extremely unlikable, despite first impressions.  
  
Severus leads us down an unfamiliar hallway -- The stone walls covered with a thick layer of mossy scrub. A shrill chirping sound echoes throughout the corridor -- Like a linnet caught in a gilded cage. We finally pass through an archway into what must be the solarium -- A circular room covered by a glass dome.  
  
Only then does it occur to me how long it's been since I've seen the sun.  
  
A thicket of maples spring up in the middle of the solarium, casting a pleasant shade over the entire room. Creepers twine their way up the walls -- Twisting around bronze water pipes, as if they were trying to choke them. A patch of mushrooms sits undisturbed near the archway. Ron reaches down to tug at one of the ivory-colored stalks.  
  
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."  
  
Ron drops the mushroom instantly.  
  
"That's a destroying angel," Severus reports. "One cap of that could kill you."  
  
"Why would you keep something like that in a garden?" Ron asks, gawking openly at the mushroom that, only five seconds earlier, had looked so innocent.  
  
"Good for potions," Severus responds, leading us farther into the solarium. Nightingales titter to and fro, paying no heed to our travelling company. We reach a large clearing -- The "Dux Solium," as Severus calls it. The ground underfoot is soft -- Cushioned with lichen, moss, and grasses. A massive tower (a fortress in its own right) spirals out from the middle of the Dux Solium -- Bronze, engraved with ancient runes. My eyes follow the tower upward -- To the center of the glass dome, almost into the clouds above. Yes, into the heavens . . .  
  
"Welcome to the Fides Solarius," Severus began, taking his role of professor once again. "The Fides Solarius was built during the rule of Alysaundre Demière and Grindelwald . . ."  
  
"Oh no," Ron groans, his shoulders drooping hopelessly. "Not those two again!"  
  
Severus continues speaking, ignoring Ron completely. "Alysaundre meant for it to be a testament of his love for Grindelwald but, in all honesty, it was used as a location for Alysaundre and Maxime Cordett to indulge in their affair." Severus gazes up at the cylindrical leviathan. "The Fides Solarius consists of seven different levels -- Including the ballroom and the library. On the top floor, beneath the dome, are the baths and the observatory."  
  
"What do the carvings mean?" Seamus asks, trailing his fingers up and down one side of the Fides Solarius, feeling every indentation.  
  
"We don't know yet," Severus explains, his lips contorting into a sharp frown. "We think that it might be an incantation of some sort -- A spell perhaps. It was written by Alysaundre Demière himself, that much is certain. Some of Voldemort's more adept scholars have been working on translating it."  
  
"Whatever it is, it's certainly beautiful." Justin stares at the Fides Solarius -- His pupils dilating, causing an ellipse of his irises.  
  
"The interior is even grander."  
  
*****  
  
The ballroom.  
  
An exquisite circular chamber -- The walls and floor made out of peppered marble. An onion-shaped chandelier hangs from the ceiling -- Two hundred lights illuminating the room. Curving around the walls are trellises created from bronze piping, adorned with grapevines. Yes, the grapes of wrath are plump and ripe for the picking.  
  
"Good day Szajha."  
  
Draco Malfoy stands in the middle of the ballroom -- All creamy flesh and moon-shaped eyes (Moon-shaped eyes which, once again, fix onto my form exclusively).  
  
"And greetings to the Debutantes." He gives a languid bow and I return in kind -- Colin, Justin, and Seamus following my lead. Ron glares at Draco suspiciously out of the corner of one eye.  
  
"Good day, sir," Severus says with a sharp curtsey. "If I may have a word in private?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Severus grasps Draco by the hand and practically drags him up the stairs and onto the second floor, leaving the group of Debutantes alone.  
  
"I don't trust him," Ron murmurs under his breath. "I simply don't trust him."  
  
"How could anyone trust Draco?" Seamus scoffs, as if the idea had never crossed his mind. "He betrayed our entire cause. We lost everything due to him and his goddamned father."  
  
"There's no use dwelling in the past," I say, trying to be the voice of reason and logic. "So Draco Malfoy turned to Voldemort at the last moment and told him everything we'd been planning. What does any of that have to do with the present moment?"  
  
"Yes, Draco has nothing to do with the present moment -- Except for the fact that, if it weren't for him, our side would have won and we wouldn't be here right now." Ron pauses for a moment before adding the grumbled: "And if it weren't for him, I'd probably be lying at home in my bed right now, eating some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans."  
  
"You're taking this awfully well, Harry," Justin comments. His eyes hold that askance look he's been giving me since second-year.  
  
"Don't you all ever get tired of fighting?" I ask, plucking one of the grapes off of the vine and shoving it into my mouth. The juice glosses my tongue -- A rich, ambrosial taste.  
  
"No," Ron replies without even thinking about it.  
  
Severus enters the ballroom once again with a contented Draco in tow.  
  
"The dancing lessons will commence," Severus announces. Draco doesn't spare any time. He strides over to me and bows deeply.  
  
"I would be honored."  
  
Ron clears his throat obnoxiously.  
  
Draco leads me out onto the dance floor, resting his hand on my hip like a dead weight. The music begins -- A strained melody played on a violin. We begin to move and . . .  
  
"Ouch!" I squeal, grabbing my heel. "Would you care to not tread on my feet next time?"  
  
"Excuse me," Draco drawls, "but I believe that you were the one who stepped backwards when you were supposed to be stepping forward."  
  
"Aren't you the one who's leading?"  
  
*****  
  
"It's beautiful at night, isn't it?"  
  
Severus and I stare up through the glass dome. The stars are out tonight -- The constellations whirling about in the celestial dance. The baths, located on the top floor, are expansive and sparsely furnished -- A few bronzed pools set into the marbled floor. The glass dome high above our heads remains unsteamed, despite the heated water gushing forth into the baths -- Giving us a clear view of the night sky. Severus sighs and pushes his robes off, letting them fall onto the ground. He climbs into the circular bath, letting the water rush over his form.  
  
"Are you coming in or aren't you?"  
  
I quickly dispose of my clothing and scramble in after him, sitting on the opposite side of the bath. We're silent for a few moments, relishing in the feeling of water lapping against our skin.  
  
"Do you and Draco get along well?" Severus asks suddenly, bringing me out of my utopia and into my reality.  
  
"Well enough," I shrug. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"No reason," Severus says, dismissing the entire subject.  
  
Silence falls over us once more. In the calm of the moment, I inch closer to Severus. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of the baths.  
  
"If you're going to come over here . . ."  
  
Severus doesn't need to say a single word more. I'm already sitting right next to him, my head resting on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me, kneading an erect nipple between his two fingers.  
  
"If you belong to Tom, then who do we belong to?"  
  
"First and foremost, you belong to Tom," Severus replies, forever gazing at the sky. "We all belong to Tom, I suppose."  
  
"Will I ever be able to be with you?" I ask, my mind travelling far ahead of decency. Severus smiles and leans over to kiss me. His lips graze mine and fireworks begin exploding behind my eyelids. My head swoons back and a shallow moan escapes my mouth.  
  
"Someday," he murmurs, his lips pressing against the ridge of my ear. I reach down and gently run a finger along Severus' shaft. Steam clouds both of our minds and we're aroused -- Aroused and half-asleep, snuggling into a cocoon of moist heat.  
  
My fingers fondle his balls, velvet softness under my fingertips. They skit down the length of the shaft and pinch at the foreskin, tugging gently at the silver ring. Severus laughs -- A slow, lingering laugh -- and softly kisses up my neck, concentrating at the nape. I rub up and down his cock a few times, simply getting a feel for the size of it -- Trying to figure out in my mind's eye what I'm supposed to do.  
  
"You've never done this before." It's a statement instead of a question. Severus pushes his lips against mine once again and our tongues leisurely bat against each other. I ease my palm over the entire width of the head and begin slowly rotating my wrist, twisting the flesh. I elicit a surprised gasp from him that time. Encouraged, I move my attention back to his balls, rolling them backward and forward, grazing them against the underside of his cock.  
  
"Have you done this before?" he asks, momentarily confused. One of my hands twines around his shaft while the other one settles on his inner thigh. He allows himself to fall back against the side of the bath, his body becoming limp. My fingers trace circles in the sensitive flesh of his thigh while my hand moves up and down the length.  
  
"God Harry," he breathlessly murmurs. I place both of my hands on either side of his cock and push together mildly. I smooth the palms of my hands up and down the shaft and he grabs ahold of some of the longer strands of my hair, not exercising any restraint in the least. I grasp his cock in the traditional clutch and begin stroking him -- My pace steady and determined. At last, he moans and semen spills out into the water.  
  
I climb onto his lap, biting his bottom lip in a gesture of childish affection.  
  
"That isn't something that's normally done to me," Severus explains, his breathing still labored. "Especially with that degree of skill." Severus pauses for a moment, concern burrowing into his thoughts. "Have I made a mistake? Are you a virgin?"  
  
"I am definitely a virgin," I reassure him, rubbing my hand against his back. "Completely untouched."  
  
*****  
  
"Don't go back to the other Debutantes tonight," Severus yawns, easing under the covers of his bed. "Stay with me."  
  
I sit on the edge of his bed, tucking the comforter around him.  
  
"Why did you ask about Draco?" I ask, playing with a strand of his hair -- Twisting it so that it coils against his scalp. "You asked me if I got along well with Draco. Why should it matter?"  
  
"Get into the bed," he murmurs, closing his eyes. "Get into the bed and I'll tell you why."  
  
I ease under the covers, remaining at least a foot away from him at all times -- Not allowing our bodies to brush against one another.  
  
"Someday, you'll no longer be directly under my care," Severus explains. "Oh, you'll still be my responsibility -- My Debutante. You'll no longer be living with me though." He pauses for a moment. Disappointment saturates my emotions.  
  
"You'll be sponsored, as all Debutantes are, by one of the Death Eaters. Oh, your first and foremost allegiance will always be to Lord Voldemort -- If he calls, no matter what the circumstances, you must go. Your secondary allegiance though . . ."  
  
"Draco Malfoy," I say, finally understanding the significance of his interest in me.  
  
"He can't claim anything that you don't fully give him. It's a contract between the two of you: In return for your services and your company, he'll take care of you until death. You wouldn't exclusively be Draco's, of course. You belong to everyone -- He simply has top priority." Severus yawns once again and fades into slumber.  
  
I'm left awake and alone. 


	5. Intellectualism

A/N: The completed Chapter Five -- Thank you for your patience  
  
Dedicated to Lyntek  
  
V. Intellectualism  
  
The library is on the fifth floor of the Fides Solarius. Simple chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a soft glow onto the books. The core of the library is set up like a Grecian symposium -- A series of chaise lounges covered in Monroe paisley (a garish gold and burgundy textile) arranged in a circle. A copper fountain stands in the center -- Fine Merlot pouring from the spickets.  
  
Severus sits at the head of the congregation. A pair of glasses is perched down on his nose as he peruses through a book: Formal Education and the Dark Arts, a study by Igor Karkaroff. He underlines a few sentences with a quill, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. He fidgets slightly -- His outfit is unusually constricting this afternoon. The smoky brown bodice is boned to ensure perfect form and posture and even the skirt is straight- lined and simple. His hair is pulled back haphazardly into a bun at the nape of his neck.  
  
I turn back to my text, afraid that I might be caught staring.  
  
Ron Weasley sits next to me, skimming through a Quidditch magazine frantically. He mutters "damn" under his breath once or twice -- Undoubtedly another Chudley Cannons defeat.  
  
"Who won the League Cup?" I whisper.  
  
"The Falmouth Falcons again," Ron sighs mournfully, shaking his head. "They're bloody violent, that bunch."  
  
A few more moments pass in contemplative silence.  
  
"You may put your books away," Severus finally states, placing his volume on the floor. "The purpose of this next exercise is to teach you how to engage others in conversation. A Debutante should be intellectually stimulating and cultured. You must be well-informed in numerous subjects: Magical skills, traditions, history, and, most importantly, politics."  
  
"Politics?" Ron asks, obviously puzzled. "Why would we need to know about politics?"  
  
"Debutantes have an active political role," Severus says sharply. "But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss that matter. Now who would like to share what they read?"  
  
"The bleedin' Falmouth Falcons won the League Cup again," Ron mumbled.  
  
"Mister Weasley, please do not use the words 'bloody' or 'bleeding' in a conversation." Severus closes his eyes, trying to invoke all of the patience he possesses.  
  
"The Falmouth Falcons won the League Cup," Ron says, correcting his speech. "I wanted Chudley Cannons to win this year. They haven't had a winning streak since 1972 after all. Joey Jenkins is a wicked beater though, least that's what I think."  
  
"No 'wicked' either," Severus states. "Joey Jenkins is a capable beater. Although your language skills are somewhat lacking, your enthusiasm is laudatory, Mister Weasley."  
  
"However enthusiasm will not bring you a sponsor."  
  
Lucius Malfoy stands in the doorway, erect and deathly proud. Severus automatically rises to his feet and smoothes out any unseemly wrinkles in his gown. He removes his glasses and tucks them into his sleeve. Severus curtsies as an afterthought, remembering Lucius' position as a Death Eater.  
  
"You look more the Ravenclaw, Severus," Lucius comments. "Tucked away in the back of a library . . . It's no place for a Szajha. You were created for the bedroom. Formed for the sole purpose of having a man spread you out beneath him . . ."  
  
"Lucius, I don't believe you will ever have that pleasure," Severus states, a smile creeping over his lips. Lucius looks flustered for a moment, not knowing what to say to the impertinent young Szajha.  
  
"I've come to call on you, Severus," Lucius finally declares. "Your presence is requested at an informal celebration tonight. Just a couple of friends and a few bottles of wine . . ."  
  
"Oh, how innocent you make it all sound, Lucius." Severus laughs mirthfully. "Best to take what you want in the present."  
  
"You cannot tempt me, Severus."  
  
"Can't I?" Severus asks, arching an eyebrow questioningly.  
  
*****  
  
True to form, Severus calls me into his chambers that evening. When I arrive, he's sitting at his vanity in the corner, primping himself with the careful precision of a woman. The jewels trimming his eyelids catch the glow of the candlelight, temporarily blinding me. When my sight finally returns, Severus is standing, blotting his lips on a handkerchief. For a moment, I'm tempted to toss him down onto the pillows and have my way with him . . . But I cannot. I never realized until this moment just how destructive this entire experience has been for me. I envy the boorish masculinity of the Death Eaters. I can never be the man that the Szajha needs. I am only a Debutante which is a different thing entirely.  
  
Severus glances at me out of the corner of his eye and smiles.  
  
"Do you feel up to going to a party tonight, Harry?" he asks, fastening a necklace around his throat. "I feel that tonight would be a good opportunity for you to be informally introduced to public life. Would you like that?"  
  
"I suppose," I reply, shrugging in a noncommittal manner. I glance down at the hem of my nightgown. "I'm not really sure what being out in public entails."  
  
"There's nothing to it, Harry," Severus states with certainty. "I assure you. When you meet a Death Eater, you curtsey and pay them the necessary respect. You remember from lessons?"  
  
I nod in confirmation -- Of course I remember.  
  
"There will be some light conversation -- Discussing popular pastimes, various acquaintances, and politics. Try to participate in any conversation about popular pastimes but, if you don't feel comfortable, you may remain silent. Never engage in conversation about acquaintances -- It is not a Debutante's place to pass judgement . . . or to make enemies. And, while you will have a chance to speak on the subject of politics, I suggest that you don't dive into that terrain immediately. You haven't had enough training. If anyone asks you to dance throughout the evening, accept the offer. However, if anyone tries to touch you intimately, just motion discreetly and it will be taken care of immediately. I'll be watching you closely. You have nothing to worry about."  
  
"Alright," I sigh, sitting down on the edge of Severus' bed. "If you're sure about everything . . ."  
  
"It will be an educational experience for you," Severus comments. "However, you're slightly underdressed." He glances appraisingly at the cotton nightgown. "But we can remedy that."  
  
Severus strides over to his wardrobe and begins picking through it. He's wearing midnight blue this evening -- "More the Ravenclaw," as Lucius Malfoy said. The facet of the gown that draws my attention is a bustle gathered in the back -- A full bustle trimmed with clumps of silk flowers. It's a spectacularly romantic article of clothing.  
  
The Szajha finally pulls an outfit down from the wardrobe -- A mass of crimson taffeta.  
  
"Try this one," he commands, handing me the gown. I slip into the changing room and draw the curtains.  
  
The changing room reminds me of the pavilion in a way. It's a small space enclosed by a series of white curtains. Chinese paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, illuminating the otherwise dim area, making it seem intimate and warm. A full-length mirror stands in the center. I undress quickly, throwing my nightgown in a corner. The gown is slightly difficult to get into -- It has these small buttons going all the way up the front. The skirt is full though -- Giving me plenty of room to move around, giving me the freedom that I desperately crave.  
  
I sidle out of the changing room. Severus is in the middle of his chambers, sorting through various pairs of earrings. I clear my throat, trying to get the Szajha's attention. He catches sight of me and all movements cease. For a moment, he's just looking at me -- Examining every trait, every movement, every aspect of my being. In a way, it makes me uncomfortable -- Like I'm some figurine on display. But, at the same time, it also makes me feel appreciated, even loved.  
  
"You look outstanding."  
  
"Thank you Severus," I murmur. He beckons for me to come over and I immediately perch myself on the bench in front of the vanity. He reaches over and picks up a hairbrush -- Silver plated and engraved with a message that I can barely make out. He mutters a few incantations and begins to gingerly brush my hair. My eyes focus on that hairbrush, trying for the life of me to read the inscription. Finally, when the light catches it in the right way, I'm able to make out the words:  
  
Beauty is a form of genius -- Is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of the silver shell we call the moon.  
  
The quote is attributed to Oscar Wilde, the infamous muggle author. Below that, scripted in ebony, is an ornate V. I have no idea why but my breath catches in my throat at the sight of that letter. That one letter, coal black against silver . . .  
  
Severus finishes his work and draws the hairbrush away from the back of my scalp. I have this peculiar feeling that I'm heavier -- That everything has been weighed down. I then notice the layers of hair curling around my waist. Coiling strands of bay-colored hair . . . And I've never felt more violated than I do now. The burden of forced femininity, forced subservience, weighs down upon me.  
  
I cannot stop myself and I don't try to. I allow the tears to fall freely -- To fall for all that I have become and to fall for everything that I will never have. I allow myself to sniffle and mewl, allow my body to shake with the force of my sobs. Severus makes no move to comfort me or to correct me. He simply stands to the side while Harry Potter, the Debutante, mourns the passing of Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived.  
  
When I've quieted down, Severus approaches me and kneels by my side. He takes my hand in his, holding my fingers to his lips for a moment. His eyes close and, one by one, he kisses the pads of my fingers. He doesn't owe me his subservience, I think to myself. Yet he kneels there, showing his affections.  
  
"I know it's difficult," Severus whispers. "Your entire identity is stripped from you in the course of a few days and you have to redefine yourself. In 1975, I was this homely snip of a boy who spent all of his free time in the potions laboratory. No one had ever shown me love or affection, I had certainly never known sexual gratification. The closest I came to happiness was sneaking out of Hogwarts on occasion to visit Lord Voldemort. It amazes me when I think that those were the Years of Terror. The Years of Terror and I spent my Sunday afternoons drinking brandy and discussing magic with the Dark Lord himself." Severus smiles nostalgically. "It was upsetting when, in 1976, I realized that I had become the most desired individual in Voldemort's service. You can imagine my inexperienced fumbling the first time Lucius Malfoy came to me . . ."  
  
"Draco treated you with respect . . ." I sniffle. "Why did Lucius seem to be insulting you this afternoon? He made you sound like a whore."  
  
Severus' fingers clench around my hand and I realize that I've upset him. His eyes burn with unspoken frustration. He rises to his feet and roughly brushes his gown off with the palms of his hands. He retrieves a stick of kohl from the vanity and he begins outlining my eyes, blotting and smudging the color. "You will soon find that different members of the public hold very different opinions of the Debutantes." He takes up a pot of ruddy paste and uses the tip of his finger to smear the coloring along my lips. "Some opinions are more hostile than others." He steps back and appraises his work.  
  
"One thing is certain," he says. "You will do magnificently as a Debutante."  
  
*****  
  
The first thing I notice, upon entering the party, is that I recognize almost everyone in the room. They are mostly children I went to school with -- Newly inducted Death Eaters. Marcus Flint, the infamous Quidditch captain, is among them, along with Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Graham Pritchard.  
  
Lucius Malfoy is present along with some of the elder Death Eaters -- the Lestranges, Walden Macnair, Augustus Rookwood, and Igor Karkaroff who has managed to rejoin the fold after defecting. All of them are people I became very familiar with during the war. I repeat their names to myself. Somehow naming them, remembering who they were before this moment, gives me power over them.  
  
Draco Malfoy is missing from the entourage.  
  
Severus doesn't waste time -- He strides over to Lucius Malfoy and curtsies deeply. "My Lord, I appreciate your invitation and . . ."  
  
"Don't bother with the formalities, Severus," Lucius says, his voice strained with impatience. "How long have we known each other? I believe we're past that point by now . . ."  
  
"You know protocol, sir," Severus replies, rising gracefully. He acknowledges the rest of the Death Eaters with a nod and they all greet him -- "Good evening Szajha."  
  
"Did you ask me here tonight for a reason, Lucius?" Severus asks, his lengthy fingers playing with the silver buttons on Lucius' jacket. He twists one around -- Once, twice . . . And then rubs the pattern engraved into the metal. I would recognize that design anywhere -- The Malfoy family crest. How pureblood of them . . .  
  
"Don't flatter yourself, Szajha," Lucius sighs, feigning ennui (even though he stiffens whenever Severus touches him). "I called you here to discuss Draco's sponsorship. He seems to have taken a shine to one of your Debutantes . . ." Lucius glances at me and I recoil slightly. "I objected to it at first . . ."  
  
"Of course you did," Severus mutters under his breath.  
  
"But if my Draco wishes to sponsor a Debutante, he shall have a Debutante. I want to finalize all temporary agreements here and now. Final agreements will be dealt with at a later date."  
  
"Reasonable requests," Severus states, arching an eyebrow in disbelief. "Very well. We shall take care of that tonight . . ."  
  
"Providing that it suits the tastes of the Debutante, of course."  
  
I turn around to discover that Lord Voldemort has been observing this exchange. His lips are set in a bemused smile, his hands are clasped behind his back.  
  
"Of course, my Lord," Severus insists, sliding into a deep curtsey. While he is still bent low to the ground, Voldemort gently brushes the loose hairs away from the Szajha's face, cupping the sharp chin in the palm of his hand. It fascinates me -- How they can be salaciously intimate in such a public setting. Severus rises to his feet, grasping Voldemort's hand tightly.  
  
When Voldemort catches sight of me, his eyebrow arches slightly -- Obviously, he thought that the Debutante being bartered over was one of the others -- Maybe Justin Finch-Fletchley or Colin Creevey. He pauses for a moment before speaking again.  
  
"Child, are you agreeable to this proposition?"  
  
I swallow deeply, rubbing my sweaty palms on the bodice of my gown.  
  
"I am undecided, my Lord," I answer.  
  
"Lucius, if I may borrow our young Debutante for a moment?" The request is a kindness -- Everyone knows that Lucius has no choice in his response.  
  
"Of course, my Lord."  
  
*****  
  
He leads me to a spare chamber, adjoining the ballroom. It appears to be an ode to the Grecian architecture -- A vaulted ceiling held up by Corinthian pillars, all carved from flawless ivory. A marbled floor chills the soles of my slippered feet. There's something unsettling about the sterility of the room -- A cold detachment of sorts. The furniture in the room is scarce -- A silver-plated sink in one corner, a stack of white towels in another. Peacock green curtains shield the center of the room from intruders.  
  
Carefully, Voldemort draws the curtains aside and leads me into the inner chamber.  
  
A bed. The only piece of furniture contained within the curtains is a bed, albeit an extremely well crafted bed. Two platinum serpents entwine around one another, creating the headboard. A light duventine fabric covers the mattress. Voldemort sits down on the edge of the pallet, unbuttoning his coat and easing it off of his shoulders.  
  
Only then does it occur to me that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, has led me into a bedroom.  
  
My heart begins slamming against my ribcage. The question floods my mind: What should I do? I could always run back to the bedroom and tell Severus that I want to return to my chambers. And then what would happen? I would have displeased Lord Voldemort and I might find myself dead before the morning.  
  
I take a deep breath and sit down by Voldemort's side.  
  
"Do you wish to belong to Draco, my child?" Voldemort asks quietly, unbuttoning his boots. "You seem hesitant. I want you to be absolutely sure before any contracts are signed." His left boot is eased off and placed next to the bed. The Dark Lord has very diminutive feet -- Perhaps a size six at largest. "After all, once signed, these agreements cannot be revoked. You understand that, correct?"  
  
"Severus has mentioned it."  
  
Voldemort removes his other boot and reclines on the bed. "Tell me, what else has Severus mentioned to you?" He pulls a set of matches from his pocket and lights one. We both watch it for a moment -- The blue center of the flame devouring the wooden matchstick. Suddenly, Voldemort tosses the match into the air. My eyes follow its upward path, watching as it lands in a brass thurible hanging above our heads on the way back down. Almost immediately, the scent of vanilla fills the air -- Smothering me, weighing me down, forcing me to relax.  
  
Vanilla is a potent aphrodisiac.  
  
"You are quite tempting," Voldemort smiles, allowing his fingers to play with the fabric of my gown. "I can see why Draco would be so desperate for your affections." His expression becomes quite serious for a moment. "However, I will have to be mindful of who claims you."  
  
"My Lord . . ." I mean for that to be a firm statement but, when his fingers graze against my flesh, my breath hitches in the middle of my throat.  
  
"Tom," he says, tugging gently at my sleeve. "You must call me Tom."  
  
I ignore my better judgement and settle myself onto the mattress. He leans over and kisses the nape of my neck. I refuse to struggle.  
  
"You are quite adaptable, Harry. That's one of the best traits to possess."  
  
Silence falls over the room. Voldemort simply stares at me, memorizing my appearance at that moment. I notice a sudden change in his demeanor. His lips purse together tightly and I know that he's contemplating his options. He sighs, nods his head once, and his eyes are clouded with disappointment.  
  
"Leave," he mutters. "Return to Severus. I don't want to take advantage of this situation."  
  
I understand immediately. Voldemort isn't supposed to bed us until the Cockatrice Bacchanalia which isn't for six more days. His bizarre sense of chivalry causes me to smile.  
  
"You'll see me again soon enough," I reply, leaning over and kissing him gently on the lips. I mean for it to be a chaste kiss -- The kiss of an innocent. It lasts longer than intended though and, for a moment, I'm tempted to allow him to continue his ministrations. However, decency forces me to pull away and I hurry out of the room, leaving Tom to himself. 


	6. Integrity

Author's Notes: I'll be perfectly honest with you -- I'm getting tired of fan fiction. I don't read it anymore, I don't write it anymore . . . I've even losing interest in Harry Potter. I only went to go see "Chamber of Secrets" seven times in theater which was incredibly disappointing. I can't promise that these pieces will be finished (Although I'm rather fond of "Szajha").  
  
VI. Integrity  
  
"Are you concerned about what the other Debutantes think of you?" Severus asks. We lie in bed together, watching a candle flicker tempestuously in the early morning draft. It spits at the ceiling and then recoils, hovering around the wick -- the center, the foundation.  
  
"Yes," I reply, hesitantly. "Sometimes I worry."  
  
My hair is coiled up tightly into pin curls. I fidget with one of the copper-plated pins -- Pulling it halfway out and then easing it back in.  
  
"You're different than they are," Severus comments. "They're children, still burdened with the resentment of children." He idly pulls one of the pins out and watches a resilient curl fall into place. "You can't wallow in the tragedy of servitude. You accept your role -- That's the reason why you aren't fully accepted by the other Debutantes."  
  
"I suppose," I sigh, leaning back against the headboard. "Tell me, what are we going to be working on today?"  
  
"Today is reserved for relaxation," Severus remarks, plucking a few more pins out of my hair and setting them on the bedside table. "I'm arranging for refreshments to be brought up at around one o'clock in the afternoon. At three, Mattox will be coordinating the garments for the Bacchanalia." I grimace at the name -- "Mattox" -- and Severus laughs. "I know he's slightly off-putting at first but you'll grow accustomed to the Venustians. The evening, of course, is reserved for additional training."  
  
I don't need to ask what Severus means by "additional training."  
  
"I suppose it's time for a summons," Severus sighs reluctantly. He pulls on the braided cord hanging above the divan. A bell can be heard, clanging cumbersomely outside in the corridors. The door is flung open and Ron Weasley, brilliantly inflamed, strides into the room. He appears more riled than usual this morning. The rest of the Debutantes follow, somewhat cowed by Ron's passion.  
  
Severus watches the procession with interest.  
  
When the Debutantes are all settled, Severus begins: "There will be refreshments at one o'clock. Until then, converse amongst yourselves."  
  
"Is that it then?" Seamus asks. "No training today?"  
  
"A little later, Mister Finnigan," Severus replies. "A little later."  
  
He extracts the final pin and tucks it away in a pocket.  
  
*****  
  
"Stylish," Ron huffs. He pulls one of my curls straight -- As if the dissolution of those ringlets could end this entire ordeal. The curl rebounds in its taunting nature. "So is this what you two do together at night?"  
  
I would have to be deaf to miss the suspicion in Ron's tone.  
  
"Ron, I don't know what you're thinking but . . ."  
  
"I think you know perfectly well what I'm thinking -- What all of us have been thinking." Ron signals to the other Debutantes who bow their heads in silent agreement. "You've been spending an awful lot of time with Snape lately. And we've been thinking that . . ."  
  
"Ron." I cut him off mid-sentence, not wanting to hear the rest of this tirade. "Ron, you need to understand what's happening to us."  
  
"I understand perfectly well what's happening to us," Ron snaps impatiently. "I also know that you're adjusting quite well to this entire scenario, aren't you? You're refusing to even put up a fight! Where's the Harry Potter I know? Where's the savior of the wizarding world?"  
  
"You can go on about this as long as you'd like, Ron, but we're not children playing on the front-line anymore," I declare. "We're prisoners of war."  
  
Ron's eyes widen -- Cobalt rings around pitch. He's never thought of it in that light before -- not really. I can tell.  
  
"Think of it this way, Ron: We've been captured by an enemy wizard -- Lord Voldemort. If we can successfully reinstate ourselves into the system as Debutantes, we will survive. If we fail and displease Voldemort, it would be all too simple to dispose of us. The savior of the wizarding world will go up in a puff of green light with the rest of you." I pause for a moment before continuing: "This is a life-or-death situation, Ron. Don't treat it like pittance."  
  
Silence falls over the room for a moment while the rest of the Debutantes consider my words. As a last minute attempt at regaining his integrity, Ron snidely comments, "That's no reason to spend so much time with Snape."  
  
No one pays any attention to him.  
  
Severus Snape sits in the corner of the room, sipping on sweet brandy-wine and watching us carefully. Every so often, he'll jot down a quick note on a slip of parchment. He's like a researcher, observing specimens plopped onto microscope slide. I fleetingly wonder what kind of notes he's taking . . .  
  
A sharp knock on the door interrupts my train of thought.  
  
"Come in, Aquarius," Severus calls and the boy nudges the door open. He balances a tray of malted beverages in one hand and an arrangement of chocolates in the other. He sets the refreshments down on the table (which sits in the middle of the room) and wipes his palms on the front of his tunic, smudging white drippings against the fabric.  
  
"Szajha, Mattox will arrive promptly at three."  
  
The distaste invoked by the name "Mattox" is practically palpable. Even Neville Longbottom crinkles his nose and twists the fabric of his skirt in his fists. Aquarius smirks, remembering the Debutantes' first encounter with the Venustians, and bows deeply before the Szajha. Severus dismisses him with a nonchalant wave of his hand.  
  
"Refreshments are served."  
  
*****  
  
Mattox arrives promptly at three, as promised. A horde of Venustians accompany him, weighed down with masses of silks and velveteen. The boy bows hastily to the Szajha, anxious to begin working on the awaiting Debutantes.  
  
"A pleasure as always, Szajha," he trills. "There is no greater joy than creating the gowns for the Cockatrice Bacchanalia, let me assure you." We grimace collectively. He rises and begins to inspect us thoroughly -- taking note of where our assets need to be complimented and where our flaws need to be hidden from sight. He snaps his fingers and one of the Venustians hands him a blank scroll. Immediately, Mattox begins sketching out designs. He begins with Justin Finch-Fletchley.  
  
"Try the neutral wool -- We need something that will fill him out yet will give him a streamlined shape." One of the Venustians holds up a piece of bleached wool in front of the young Hufflepuff and Mattox steps back, admiring the selection. "That will do. We'll use a silk chemise and then the overcoat will be made of the neutral wool. Make the overcoat in a classic empire style -- gathered at the waist, flared at the bottom. You know the type. Whoever is in charge of decorative designs, take note --" Another Venustian, the one in charge of decorative designs, pulls out a scrap of parchment and begins taking dictation. "I want something that will emphasize his virtue. This one's virtuous, isn't he, Szajha?"  
  
"Well, they're all virtuous," Severus replies, lighting yet another cigarette and taking a long drag. He looks so divinely debauched like that -- All carmine lips and half-lidded eyes. "But this one is exceptionally sweet, yes."  
  
"So we want a design that will stress his purity. Perhaps flowers . . . Yes, something like white roses trailing down the back of the overcoat, onto the train. You can do that with pearls and cross-stitching, can't you?" The Venustian nods -- yes. "Wonderful. On the front lapels, I want solid beading -- Pearls again, maybe a diamond interspersed here and there to add that sense of glamour." The Venustian nods in agreement. "Next."  
  
And Justin Finch-Fletchley is pushed to the back as Colin Creevey shyly takes his place.  
  
They continue on like that for a while -- Mattox barking directions while the other Venustians take careful notes, nodding their heads at the appropriate moments. Colin Creevey is deemed "too petite" and Neville Longbottom is "far too plump" (and, to compliment his "plumpness", Neville is forced to wear somber brown -- a fabric that somewhat resembles a burlap bag). Ron is designated as the "fiery" one and put in the traditional Gryffindor colors -- Red and gold. Seamus is "forgettable" and dressed accordingly.  
  
"Hm, Harry Potter."  
  
And it's finally my turn. Mattox walks around me -- rubbing his chin with the pad of his thumb. He circles around a few times, like a bird eyeing his prey. I fidget uncomfortably. He finally ceases his pacing and simply stares.  
  
"You're the most beautiful by far," Mattox frowns, as if this were something negative. "Green bodice -- Laces going up the front." Something about Mattox seems much more hesitant now than when he began.  
  
"What should the color of the laces be?" one of the Venustians inquires, pen poised over parchment.  
  
"Black. We'll try a color scheme of green and black and see how that works out." Mattox picks up another scroll and begins sketching some tentative designs. "I want a full gown -- No train, cape attached to the shoulders of the bodice though. I want everything to be simple. No flourishes or gemstones -- He doesn't need them . . ." And Mattox just stands there for a moment, reveling in the task of outfitting me. I feel like something displayed in a shop window, being eyed by a passing pedestrian. For the first time, I understand what it feels like to be "the centerpiece of empires."  
  
"Yes, that should do nicely."  
  
*****  
  
"I said once before that you would have to be especially well-learned in the art of sexual gratification. With the Cockatrice Bacchanalia only five days away, it is necessary to begin your training." Severus is perched in front of his vanity again -- How many times have I watched him looking at himself, seeing all of the parts but none of the whole? The eyes, the lips, the cheeks . . . Never the complete picture though. I sit nearby, worshipping his carefully-crafted beauty.  
  
"Oh bloody hell," Ron groans, not bothering to hide his distaste. Neville looks at though he's going to bury himself under the carpet. Instead, he huddles up into a little ball, hiding his face in the folds of his skirt.  
  
"Harry," Severus murmurs, holding out his hand. I don't hesitate -- I rise from my seat on the carpeted floor and I go to him. My erection presses against the fabric of my gown, making my arousal known to the world.  
  
I remind myself to wear a fuller skirt in the future.  
  
I immediately know what is desired of me. I sink to my knees before Severus, my Szajha, and I begin unbuttoning his robes. There's a stir of whispers from behind me. I can only make out bits and pieces of the comments but I can tell that the other Debutantes are shocked by my conduct. Apparently, I'm supposed to be proud and noble, refusing bitterly to have any part in this activity. Instead, I willing debase myself before the Szajha. I prostrate myself before him. I seek out ways to pleasure him.  
  
I feel no shame.  
  
I fold the fabric over, revealing his calves, his thighs, his cock . . . The silver ring latched onto his foreskin shimmers languidly in the candelight. I run my tongue over my lower lip subconsciously. "Severus." The word is hissed, syllables escaping between my teeth. I feel the palm of his hand press against the back of my scalp, twining his fingers into my curls.  
  
I take the flesh of his thigh between my teeth and bite gently -- just hard enough to mark. His hand tightens around the cowl of my robe and he pulls me forward so that my lips are almost touching his cock. I take a deep breath, trying to force myself to relax. Then I lean forward and begin taking the entire length into my mouth and . . . I choke. I pull back -- gagging and wretching, rubbing the top of my neck with my fingers.  
  
"Honestly, Harry," Severus sighs, obviously disappointed. "Well, I suppose this is why we're having these sessions after all. Look, you don't have to take everything into your mouth at once . . ."  
  
"Bloody hell, I don't believe I'm hearing this from my Potions Professor," Ron exclaims, slapping his hands over his ears.  
  
Severus glares at the insolent student before continuing. "Tease slightly -- not to the point of discouragement, simply to make the experience more interesting. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes," I cough. "Can I have a moment to catch my breath then?"  
  
"Come here," Severus nods, patting his thigh. I slowly rise from my position on the floor and sit on the offered knee, wrapping my arms around his slender frame. He looks at the Debutantes, contemplating for a moment, and then he asks me: "If you could have any one of them, which one would you choose?"  
  
I look at him blankly for a few seconds and then, it dawns on me. I blush -- bright crimson, all over my face.  
  
"Well, um, I suppose . . ." I stare at the floor, not wanting to look any of the Debutantes in the eye at this moment. "Well, I really can't say then -- Never really thought about it . . . Um, maybe Ron?"  
  
"Oh, now I am definitely not hearing this," Ron shouts, leaping to his feet and preparing to exit the room.  
  
"Mister Weasley," Severus snaps and Ron halts abruptly. "He's not saying that you're his first choice among men, you know. He's simply prefers you to Neville Longbottom. You should think of this as a compliment instead of an insult."  
  
"No," Ron proclaims. "He's my best friend and I should think of this as simply weird."  
  
I can hear the shuffle of Ron's slippered feet as he walks across the floor, the rusty creak of the door on its hinges, and . . .  
  
"Imperio."  
  
I look up, startled by the spell. Severus sits there, eyes tightly closed in concentration. His hand is extended towards Ron -- pointing almost as a wand might. And I think we're all somewhat surprised when Ron ceases all movement and waits for the first command.  
  
"Mister Weasley, come over here immediately."  
  
Ron straggles over to Severus' bed, standing before the Szajha.  
  
"You don't even have a wand," I mutter. "You're doing all of this without a wand."  
  
"Debutantes aren't allowed wands," Severus states simply, finally opening his eyes and staring at the results of his work. "I'm not allowed a wand either. However, anything that can be done with a wand, can also be done without. It's simply more difficult. But don't tell any of the Death Eaters that . . ." Severus' lips arch up in a tight smile and I understand: They all think their doting Szajha is powerless. "Now, Mister Weasley, get onto the bed."  
  
Ron shakes his head -- "no" -- but proceeds to climb onto the bed, resting his head on one of the down pillows. I know what's expected of me.  
  
"I won't take advantage of him," I whisper to Severus, making sure that Ron and the other Debutantes don't hear.  
  
"I'm not expecting you to." 


	7. Sexuality

A/N: Looking over Lyntek's old illustrations from "Szajha" -- This picture made me do it:   
  
Difficult to write a chapter that measures up to everyone's expectations -- Hope I'm somewhat succeeding  
  
Dedicated to Sirius Black  
  
VII. Sexuality  
  
"I can't believe he dismissed us," Seamus grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head.  
  
The Debutantes are all sleeping in the chamber adjoining Acca Larentia tonight. Severus promptly dismissed us, insisting that Ron needed some "private instruction." If Ron could have cast "Avada Kedavra" with a glare, I would now be dead on the Szajha's floor. So we, the Debutantes, trudged back to this all-too-familiar chamber for some refreshments and relaxation.  
  
"I'm so glad that he did," Colin declares, plucking a bon-bon from off of a platter and shoving it into his mouth. "I could live the rest of my life without seeing Ron Weasley naked." He cocks his head to the side appraisingly. "Jelly-filled. I rather like those."  
  
"Why'd you have to bring it up, Harry?" Justin sighs.  
  
"It's not Harry's fault," Colin insists, half rising to his feet (in case the Hufflepuff wanted to challenge him). "Professor Snape was the one who asked the question. You should be blaming him. Not Harry."  
  
"Professor Snape. It's been so long since I've thought of him as Professor Snape."  
  
The comment comes from Neville Longbottom. He's sitting on a heap of linen bedclothes, hugging a pillow to his chest. Neville is, without a doubt, the innocent in this entire scenario. Everything about him is so far removed from this world of sexuality and political intrigue. He's the antithesis of everything a Debutante should be -- pudgy, clumsy, and naïve.  
  
And I admire him for that.  
  
"Oh god," Colin giggles falling back onto the comforter. "I wonder what Snape's doing to him in there . . . Can you even imagine?"  
  
"I'm sure Harry can," Justin mumbles, helping himself to one of the bon- bons.  
  
"Is that one of the cream-filled ones, Justin?" Colin asks, leaning over and inspecting the candy. "Because I want to know what exactly they put in those things . . ."  
  
Justin's eyes go wide and he sputters -- letting strings of cream dribble out down his chin. Seamus and Colin bust into peals of laughter, tears beading up in the corners of their eyes. Even Neville smiles sheepishly, barely willing to acknowledge that he picked up on the "dirty joke." The hysterics continue . . . until the door flies open.  
  
For a moment, the world ceases to turn.  
  
Ron Weasley stands in the doorway. His complexion has blanched to a dull gray. His trembling hands grip the doorframe, as if he might fall over if the wind happened to blow the wrong way. His eyes look like they've been glazed over with powdered-sugar icing. He takes a couple ragged breaths, trying to steady himself.  
  
"Severus wishes to see you," he croaks out. He tentatively releases his grip on the door, stumbles forward a few steps, and then collapses onto the comforter. All of the Debutantes rush to him -- except for me, naturally.  
  
I bolt out into the hallway before anyone can ask questions.  
  
*****  
  
"What did you do to him?" I ask, bringing my fist down onto the bureau. Severus is stretched out on the divan, reading some rustic hand-written novel. He barely looks up when I enter the room. So I stand there for a few moments -- silently fuming, hoping that he'll finally show a tinge of concern or regret. But he just lies there, sifting through the pages of his book. Professor Snape -- indifferent and cold, always willing to emotionally traumatize a student for the sake of "education."  
  
And, for a moment, I can't believe I've ever looked at this man with any feeling except contempt.  
  
Finally, I pick up the vase -- filled with lilies -- and hurl it towards the floor. Millions of crystal shards sink into the plush carpeting.  
  
"Now did that serve any purpose?" Severus sighs, putting his book to the side for a moment. "Come near to me."  
  
"I don't think so," I murmur, moving farther back into the shadow of the doorframe. "After what you did to Ron, I don't even know if I ever want to see you again . . ."  
  
"Don't be childish. You don't have a choice in the matter. Now come near to me."  
  
And he's right, of course. I don't have a choice in the matter. I'm a captive -- one of those "birds in a gilded cage." I'm not completely blind to my situation. I'm not keeping up that façade of control like the others. I've been enslaved and all choices are no longer my own. So I lock the door and come near to him, perching on the edge of his bed.  
  
"Not so bad then, is it?" Severus' voice is definitively soothing and I begin to forget the cause of my anger. It slips out of my mind, like a trout, and swims away. Now I'm just curling my fists in the fabric of his nightgown, trying to root myself in him. Trying to find a sense of security and "home" that I lost the moment I was abducted from Hogwarts.  
  
"What are you thinking?" Severus whispers, brushing his lips against my cheek in a show of affection.  
  
"I'm a canary," I smile. "I'm a canary that's flown down one hell of a coal mine."  
  
And he's about to kiss me when we hear three hard knocks -- knock, knock, knock -- on the door to our chambers. A sharp intake of breath. Flecks of light glint through otherwise dusky eyes. I immediately know who's come calling.  
  
"If I may be excused, Szajha . . ." I slowly slide off the divan, trying desperately to escape. Behind that door is a cluster of possibilities . . . Tonight, however, all I want is a dab of paternal affection and a good night's sleep (preferably in the same room as the other Debutantes, for once). However, Severus seems to have other plans. In his felicitousness, he pulls me into his arms and begins to nuzzle my collarbone.  
  
"We aren't presentable, my lord!" Severus laughs. Then he repeats my previous lesson: "A Debutante would never appear before anyone of importance in a state of undress."  
  
Voldemort sighs impatiently from behind the door. "Severus, I know you. It takes four hours for you to get 'dressed.' And I'm impatient this evening."  
  
"Then come in, my lord." Something about their manner of conversation is so at ease. The tones of their voices seem to warm the entire room. Severus laughs lightly and then looks down at me. He automatically stiffens and says in a show of formality: "You may come in, if you desire. I won't defy you, my lord."  
  
A nudge against the door and it swings open. Voldemort slowly steps into the lamplight. Shadows play over the lines of his face -- making crevices and creases appear deeper. All of a sudden, he looks so much mature. Seventy-three years are beginning to make themselves known. The glint in his eyes isn't quite as vital; the smile that stings his lips isn't quite as feral. Yet still, Severus beckons him into the bedroom with the eager anticipation of a child.  
  
The Dark Lord's eyebrow arches upward when he sees me -- Harry Potter, the precious Debutante -- sitting on the Szajha's bed.  
  
"We have company," Severus whispers (this is apparently some great secret).  
  
"Manners, darling," Voldemort chides. It takes a moment before I realize that this censure is directed towards me. My eyebrows knit together in confusion -- Have I done anything disrespectful? I haven't spoken but, then again, I haven't been spoken to. I must have . . . Suddenly, it occurs to me. I slowly ease down from the edge of the bed into a deep curtsey. One that, if I may say so myself, almost rivals the Szajha's.  
  
"Well done. You've trained him well, Severus."  
  
It's one of the few times I've heard Lord Voldemort call the Szajha by his given name.  
  
"Thank you, Tom."  
  
And it's certainly the only time I've heard the Szajha call Lord Voldemort by that "filthy muggle name."  
  
Severus rises to his slippered feet. He hastily attempts to straighten himself out -- to make himself look presentable. Pins are fastened and curls are tweaked. He checks the mirror and, when the reflection is suitably attractive, he begins to fall into a curtsey. But it seems that, this time, Voldemort has different plans for the evening. The Dark Lord clasps Severus around the waist and pulls him into a tight embrace. They simply hold each other for a few moments. I notice that Voldemort is whispering sugary endearments into Severus' ear. I begin to feel as if I'm intruding on a private moment. Then Voldemort moves closer and his lips collide with Severus'.  
  
And then I can no longer move of my own accord.  
  
I just stare at those two profiles -- that prolific nose grazing against Voldemort's cheek, the deft fingers tangling in cinereal strands of hair, the fleeting moments when I can see tongues flicking out and then retreating . . . I don't know if I'm in love with one, or the other, or both of them. All I know is that I cannot move from this spot.  
  
And soon, Voldemort notices.  
  
"Sit," he commands and Severus retreats to the rococo chairs in the corner. His legs crossed and his fingers peaked like a Christian steeple, he watches attentively.  
  
"You said that I'd see you again soon enough." Voldemort parrots our previous conversation as he begins to unbutton his robe. Cold steel buttons slip out of their holes and, little by little, strips of flesh are revealed to me. Voldemort, apparently, chooses not to wear anything beneath his robe. And, although I loathe to say it, I'm not really complaining.  
  
"I've been waiting patiently." One-half of the buttons are undone. "I will continue to wait until the Cockatrice Bacchanalia . . ." Five more. " . . . Where I will finally be able to bed you . . ." Two more. " . . . But for now . . ." One more. " . . . There are still some . . . interesting ways to pass the time." Voldemort pushes the fabric off of his shoulders and he's completely exposed before me. I find it fascinating -- seeing Lord Voldemort is this state of would-be vulnerability. Instead of appearing weaker, he only seems increasingly powerful. It's as if the garments were shielding the common public from the true magnitude of his strength. For the first time throughout my term of servitude, I genuinely cower before him.  
  
There are no requests, no commands. He tugs on the brass knob of a near-by drawer and pulls out a package of Dunhill Cigarettes, wrapped up in cellophane. "From a muggle shop," Voldemort explains, opening the box and pulling out two cigarettes. He lights them and then offers me one.  
  
"Smoking's really bad for you," I lightly object, knowing how childish I must sound.  
  
"Come on, darling." He sits down on the bed, so close that I can feel the blue-heat radiating off of his flesh. I fleetingly think about grabbing one of the near-by pillows -- I could shove it onto my lap, try to conceal my growing erection. However, that would be futile. Voldemort's already seen the efforts of his ministrations, tenting up under nearly transparent cotton. He smiles roguishly and brings the cigarette to his lips.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He inhales deeply and, before I can protest, he brings his lips to mine. The burnt-tobacco taste filters into my mouth, the smoke eases down my larynx and fills my lungs. I automatically begin coughing -- deep, breathy coughs. Voldemort rubs his hand down the expanse of my back.  
  
Severus laughs.  
  
"You'll get better."  
  
Voldemort drops the cigarette into an ashtray and turns all of his attentions to me. Fingers lace through the ends of a grosgrain ribbon -- weaved into my braided chignon. He begins to untie the neckline of my nightgown but, in his haste, he accidentally tangles up the strings into a double-knot. "Damn," he curses under his breath. He tugs at the snag and he's eventually rewarded. The nightgown falls down around my waist. He surveys this new territory for a moment before pressing his lips against the buttery skin of my shoulder.  
  
My thighs spread apart -- unconsciously -- and Voldemort takes this opportunity to position himself between my legs. He continues laving my shoulder with his tongue. I hesitantly wrap my arms around him, pressing him closer -- encouraging him to caress, to fondle, to stroke . . . Until now, I hadn't realized that I'd been holding my breath. However, I exhale deeply when he finally brings his tongue downwards, to gloss my nipple.  
  
"Oh god," I mutter, gently grinding my hips into his torso -- trying to attain some of that coveted friction. "Don't do this to me . . ."  
  
He releases my nipple -- now florid and swollen.  
  
"Don't do what?"  
  
"Don't tease me unless you plan on taking me."  
  
Before Severus can sputter out some sort of apology (trying to atone for my brash words), Voldemort bursts into laughter. He falls back onto the comforter, trembling from the hilarity. Hell, whatever I was expecting his reaction to be, this definitely wasn't it. My erection wilts like a flower in the scorching August sun.  
  
"Oh, my little Debutante," he sighs -- a lofty smile plastered on his lips. "You've taught him how to be wanton, Severus, but can you teach him to be evasive as well? He's not supposed to beg for it . . ." Another fit of uproarious laughter. "So much for the demure . . ."  
  
I glance over at Severus.  
  
And automatically wish that I hadn't.  
  
His fingers are twitching; his mouth contorted into the traditional scowl. I haven't seen Severus looking like this since my days as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry -- almost an eternity ago in my mind's eye. His pupils are practically boiling over with searing rage.  
  
Obviously Severus doesn't like being laughed at.  
  
Especially not by his Lord.  
  
His lover.  
  
"I'm sorry." I shrink back into the pillows -- as if they could swallow me up in one incredible feather-filled gulp. Then I'd be done with this entire scenario.  
  
"You couldn't have known any better," Voldemort says, in an almost paternal manner. "You're still in training, my Debutante. But let this be a lesson: Never ask for sexual gratification. You never need to ask for what you can have. Do you understand?"  
  
I nod and he kisses me -- a repugnantly chaste kiss.  
  
However, he does take a second to whisper in my ear: "I'll take care of the Szajha."  
  
Voldemort rises from the bed and begins to clothe himself. I quietly observe -- waxen flesh pulling over muscle. Glistening, salty flesh . . . over biceps, deltoids, pectorals . . . dartos, hidden behind the blush-hued scrotum . . .  
  
"How many more days?"  
  
"Four."  
  
Four more days. Four more days to decide what I want.  
  
Who I want.  
  
Draco. Severus. Voldemort.  
  
"Come Severus."  
  
And the two of them are gone. 


	8. Frivolity

VIII. Frivolity

"I just cannot work under these conditions," Mattox wails, throwing his platinum-coated needle down onto the floor. It disappears into the stringy loops of the carpet. He fumes silently for a couple of minutes before realizing the repercussions of his actions. "Oh, damn it all," he mutters, falling onto his knees and prodding around with his fingers. "I didn't bring another needle this afternoon. And the needle is necessary for my work, do you understand?" Mattox glares up from his proper place -- the one on the floor. "Well, Mister Creevey? Do you intend on helping me or not?"

"It's not a Debutante's place to be kneeling," Colin sniffs, showcasing every ounce of boastful elitism that Severus has instilled in him. I've never felt prouder of my protégé. Mattox is about to fracture Colin's newly-formed ego with some gelid comment . . . However, he's interrupted.

"I can think of no better place for a debutante."

Lucius Malfoy looms in the window -- poised and erect, like some chiseled marble statue. In the gloaming, he looks even more menacing. "A debutante should kneel on the floor -- between a man's thighs." A puddle of bile rises from my stomach into my throat. I force myself to swallow the acidic liquid back down. It singes the back of my throat. "Dismissed."

Mattox automatically bows and takes his leave. I've never been more reluctant to see him go.

"For now though, I'll settle for the Szajha. Where is Severus?"

"He isn't here," I declare, rather boldly -- adding a "sir" for courtesy's sake. "If you desire his audience, he can be found in Lord Voldemort's chambers at this hour."

"Of course," Lucius scoffs. "Severus always returns to his master like an obedient lapdog -- spreading his legs on command and mewing like some bitch in heat."

"That's quite enough, Lucius."

The Szajha stands in the doorframe -- looking thoroughly presentable. However, I do notice that his lips (newly coated with polish) are swollen to a fault. The images begin to swirl around in my mind like some pornographic kaleidoscope. My god, what's happened in the past week to trigger reactions like this in me? What have they done to me here? Why haven't I even tried fighting back yet? I'm supposed to be the savior of the wizarding world, for god's sake. Possessing the courage of Gryffindor . . . and I'm concerned with nothing more than saving my own worthless life. I stand here, making excuses for myself like "the battle has already been lost" or "resistance is useless at this point."

Have they broken me?

"I'm here about the Debutante," Lucius says, sitting down on the divan. "The debutante that my son hopes to sponsor in the future." Lucius turns and examines me momentarily. Then, he notices that Colin Creevey is also present in the room. He harshly growls: "You are also dismissed." Colin makes an embarrassingly high-pitched apology and dashes out of the bedroom.

"Come here," Lucius commands and being such a well-trained debutante, I obey without question. He examines me carefully -- my height, my build, my features. I can tell that he's asking himself the all-powerful question: Am I good enough for his only child? "You know that if Draco were to sponsor you, he would never be able to wed. He would never give birth to a child of his own. The Malfoy line would become extinct."

"No, I wasn't aware of that," I stammer. Draco would allow the entire bloodline to perish? He would sacrifice his heritage? Does it mean so little to him?

Or do I mean so much?

"I've never agreed with the potent union between debutante and sponsor," Lucius sniffs. "However, it was instituted to make sure that debutantes weren't abandoned when they grew older. Sponsors are blessed in their youth -- possessing the . . . What do you refer to them as, Severus? The centerpieces of empires? However after the debutantes lose their youthful charms, they are little more than a burden. Oh, they're trained to be excellent conversationalists and their intellect is well-known . . . But can evenings of banal chatter compare to the joys of fatherhood? To the carnal knowledge of a woman each night? Are you worth the sacrifices, Harry?"

I swallow thickly -- not knowing how to answer.

"The pure blood running through these veins . . ." Lucius yanks up his shirt-sleeve and revealed a pallid forearm. "Our blood would be wasted. And for what? A debutante!"

"The finest Debutante," Severus corrects.

Lucius pauses before repeating those words: "The finest debutante." I can tell that he's resigned himself to his son's choice. "My only child, Draco Malfoy, has signed the contract of sponsorship. With your signature, the union will be secured."

"Lucius, may I speak candidly with my debutante?"

"Certainly."

"Harry, first and foremost, you've been forgiven for last night's episode. I understand that you didn't know any better but let this serve as a lesson to you."

I begin to issue some sort of an apology but the Szajha cuts me off.

"Secondly, this union would be a particularly beneficial one. As you know, the Malfoy family is in good financial standing so you would never be uncertain about the stability of your future. Draco Malfoy is a particularly well-meaning sponsor . . ."

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused by Severus' impartial wording.

"He'll care for you, Harry."

"Oh." I stare at my slippered feet -- digging my toes into the mass of carpeting, etching out patterns in the loops of yarn. "Do you think that this is the best choice for me? I mean, I should sign the contract . . . right?"

"I think you'll regret it if you don't," Severus replies simply. "You won't find a better sponsor."

"No," I mutter, half-thinking of something else. "I suppose that I won't." Images of the near-future click through my mind. Every evening, after eight hours of assisting in plots of world domination, Draco Malfoy will return home to find . . . what? Just me. And what do I have to offer? I wouldn't be particularly domestic. I couldn't see myself preparing cuisine on a nightly basis. And we wouldn't have much in common -- so I'd be limited as a conversationalist. And, of course, I couldn't deliver a child for him. And even my appearances are somewhat lacking . . .

"Oh, but he could do so much better!" I exclaim thoughtlessly.

"Agreed," Lucius responds snidely. "But Draco will accept no one else. And, as I said once before, if my child wishes to sponsor a debutante . . . he shall have a debutante."

"Harry, sign the contract now," Severus murmurs -- extending the quill towards me. And without thinking (only following the direction of the Szajha), I scribble my name onto the contract. Harry James Potter, debutante. Sponsored by Draco Malfoy. And I don't have time for second-thoughts because Lucius, regretfully, folds up the contract and leaves the chambers.

"What have I just done?"

The question is rhetorical but Severus answers anyway.

"Made the right decision."

TBC


End file.
